Amber Alert
by ashatanii
Summary: Jim and karen are pushed to the edge as they get caught up in an Amber Alert with some un expected twists.
1. Chapter 1

Amber Alert

"You okay?" Karen asked as she looked Jim over. He looked ruffled, his jacket not quite straight. She leaned over and lifted his pant leg. "Your socks are odd again."

"Damn! I'm tossing them all and buying just black," Jim sighed. "Is it obvious?"

"No. I had to look."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't. Anything else?"

"Just re-settle your jacket."

He did.

"Perfect." Karen brushed imaginary lint off his jacket and opened the back door for Hank. "Christie not home?"

"Yes, she was just… in a hurry." The last thing Jim wanted to think about was Christie. Again this morning she had rushed out of the apartment, saying she couldn't talk. The washing had come back from the laundry with the socks unpaired again. He'd complained and she'd grabbed two and said they matched, throwing them at him as she ran out the door. He hated to admit it, but her primping had been useful. At least he had always known he would look okay stepping out the door. But these days she seemed to avoid giving him any sort of helping hand. She'd even suggested he hire a book keeper. "I haven't done the bills for – oh ages," she explained as she tossed back her coffee. When he'd suggested they have dinner together, he could have sworn she was laughing, though she said she wasn't. "Should I cancel my dinner? What are you cooking?" He gave up.

Jim pulled his mind back from the moment. "She's going for a promotion."

"Good for her," Karen said as she and Jim got into the car. They were headed out to canvass an area where two small children had been reported missing in the last 24 hours. The area was once a prosperous business and shopping area, but had fallen on hard times and there were plenty of squatters, un-contracted rentals, and short term tenants.

They arrived well before Tom and Marty. Karen described the dead end street. "Narrow street, two abandoned cars – no wheels."

"Runs North South?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Karen was surprised.

"Feels cooler, I'm guessing the buildings are tall, no sunlight?"

"That's right. It looks like they used to be shops and small businesses but have been closed down. Some single some double story, but it's pretty dark here." Jim heard Karen turning her head to look as she spoke. "Also newspapers on the windows, that sort of thing. Not somewhere I'd like to bring up a kid."

"The people who live here probably don't have a choice," Jim reminded Karen half turning behind him. "Is that Tom and Marty?" The footsteps were unclear, perhaps still around a corner.

"Yeah, they got two patrols with them." Karen smiled and started introductions as the men walked up. She handed out photographs of the missing children. Then she turned to Jim.

The case had been assigned to him and he now briefed the uniformed officers, "So far we have no standard MO. One child disappeared in a market, the other where she was playing with her big brother and some children outside the house, the next street over. Canvass there yielded nothing."

"Why we here then?" Officer Riley asked.

"The children playing in the street saw only one person we have not been able to identify and check; a male. Apparently they saw him walk into this street and not come out." Jim waited but there were no more questions.

"We'll do the north side, Officer Riley. Why don't you and your partner start at the other end and we'll meet in the middle? Marty?"

"We'll do the same on the south." Marty gestured to the other uniformed pair to begin at the other end of their row of dilapidated tenements which looked more likely to be residential than the one's on the north.

Jim and Karen headed for the first door in a long line of doors up the street.

Tom and Marty crossed the road to begin. Riley and Rodriguez moved on ahead, and Karen and Jim went to the first door. "Jeez, there's a demolition order still stuck to this door," Karen said as they walked up the stairs.

"Some of these buildings fight demo orders for years before they get knocked down." The step under Jim's feet started to crack and he stepped quickly up to the next one. "I doubt this one can fight off another one."

"Hello?" Karen knocked and called. The first door pushed open at her knock; a dry dusty smell wafted out. Karen stepped over the threshold, Jim close behind her. "Old shop. Looks empty," she said, noting the dust thick on the floor, undisturbed.

Jim sneezed. "No footprints? Signs that things have been moved?"

"No." Karen left his side and checked behind the counter.

"Hello? Anyone in here?" Jim called out, his voice echoing off the walls. "Small place. Any doors?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, just one." She guided him over and opened the door. A small kitchen filled the space, again covered in dust, most of the appliances blackened.

"Fire?" Jim wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah," Karen answered, "It's empty."

"Alright, next."

The second door never opened at all. Doors three to nine were opened by tenants but none recognized the children.

At the next door, a child of about seven years answered and stood looking at the two detectives, her thumb in her mouth, her eyes wide. "Hi, we're looking for these children, have you seen them?" Karen held out the photographs.

The kid grabbed them from her hand and ran inside calling, "Mom!"

"Shit. She grabbed the photos," Karen explained and Jim gave a small laugh.

A huge woman in a Hawaiian print mumu arrived at the door. She threw the photos at Karen, who scrambled to catch the flying cards. "What's this about? I ain't got no money to be giving charity for no little kids." Her voice rose until it matched the loud floral print of her dress. "I got enough to worry about with my own kids, so you can jus' take your emotional blackmail photos and get yourself outa my doorway."

She leaned forward to poke at Karen with a large finger. Karen leaned back into Jim's space to avoid being prodded.

Jim moved in front of Karen protectively and held out his badge. "Excuse me ma'am. We're from the 8th precinct, Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar. We are asking door to door if anyone has seen these children. They have been missing for several days now."

"You ain't collectin' for no charity?" The huge woman scowled at Jim in his dark glasses, standing in her doorway like he had a right to be there.

"No. We are looking for lost children. Perhaps you heard on the radio or saw on TV that they were missing?" Jim was patient. He took off his glasses, folded them and slid them into a pocket. It often took people quite a while to let go of who they thought you were before they listened to whom you said you were. "Could you look at the photograph my partner is showing you again?" He gave her his most charming smile and gestured to Karen who was stowing the photos in her jacket.

The woman's mouth formed a big "O" as she bounced between staring at his eyes and responding to his smile. "Oh, Oh, I'm sorry officer. I… I… you know we always get people asking for charity or answer a marketing survey, or to change our phone over - like anyone who lives in this dump got money for phones."

Jim smiled and nodded toward the photos.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Karen held the pictures out again. "Could you have a look now and tell us if you recognize these children?"

The woman bent over the photo, squinted, and looked up again. "Jus' wait there while I get my glasses."

"Could your child come take a look, too? Perhaps he saw them?" Jim added as the woman swept down the hallway.

"Jasmine! Jasmine!" The woman's voice was shrill as she called for her daughter.

Karen gurgled and Jim turned to her, eyebrows high. "Did you just giggle?

"She's like a cannon ball in the hallway, she fills..." She held her hands wide in the doorway, brushing his arm. "The whole thing -like a whale going down a missile tube."

"Missile tube? Where _do _you get all these submarine analogies, Karen?" Jim was perplexed. "This has to be the third one this week and it's only Monday?"

"Submarine? Oh, well, I dated a submariner recently, I guess it rubbed off." Karen sought to change the subject. "That look of yours has become pretty useful, Jim."

"What look?" Jim asked innocently.

"Don't pretend you don't know. That, "I'll just take off my glasses and you can look into my dreamy blue eyes and melt" look that you just used on that poor woman.

"Poor woman?"

"She's about the size of a whale and I bet no man has tried to charm her for years. You're taking advantage."

Jim gave an exaggerated shrug, continuing to feign innocence.

A sharp, unexpected elbow in his side and he gave up. "Hey, if it makes things go easier –why you complaining?"

"Just don't ever try it on me."

"I would never do that." He was sincere; he knew it wouldn't have a chance with her. "Besides you have one too."

"What a 'melt the female' look?"

"No, for guys, you know, the one you used on Stephan Sherman on Friday. What _did_ you do? He would have cooked his children to win a smile from you."

Karen blushed. "Nothing? I… I just… nothing."

"Are you blushing?" Jim's grin stretched wider.

"No. I'm Puerto Rican, we don't blush." She needed to divert this conversation. "Anyhow, I gotta learn to schmooze the ugly ones like you do though. That's hard."

"Just don't look at them," Jim said in a completely reasonable tone.

"You idiot."

Jim thought he heard a smile in Karen's voice. "You doing the melt the male thing?"

"Shh," Karen cautioned. The huffing and stomping suggested the human missile was back.

"Jasmine, look at the pictures the nice policeman is showing you. Do you know these children?"

The child sucked her thumb and gazed at Karen who took the photos from Jim and held them out. "She doesn't recognize them, Jim."

"And you, Ma'am? Do you recognize the children?" Jim prodded.

The big woman pulled the photos from Karen's hand and held them at arm's length, squinting and closing one eye. "No, can't say as I do. Pretty children though, someone must be missing them. Whose are they? When you gonna find them? You think they dead already?"

The woman's questions streamed from her mouth unendingly. Jim imagined missiles issued from a whale and going in all directions.

"Thank you, I'll take those now." Karen pulled the photos from her grasp. "We really need to keep going, I'm sure you understand."

"No recognition?" Jim asked as the door closed forcefully in front of them.

Karen snorted. "Even with her glasses she was pretending she could see the end of her arm. You could ID them better I think."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Amber Alert  
Chapter Two

Jim smiled and they moved down the couple of steps back to the street. "How many to go?"

"How many doors?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'd say we're three quarters of the way down the street. I can see Tom and Marty at about the same level on their side. Whoa!" Karen sounded impressed.

"What? They got something?"

"They got one even fatter than the last one we had."

Jim shook his head, women were so size conscious. "Three quarters done? Strange we haven't met up with Riley and Rodriguez yet."

Karen led him up another flight and knocked on the door.  
"Maybe we should try them on the radio."

Jim pulled out the radio but before he had a chance to make teh call, the door in front of them opened.

A tall, heavily muscled man opened it and stepped back into the gloom. A TV could be heard in the room behind him. "Sir, we'd like you to look at these photos," Karen asked.

When he didn't re-emerge Karen called out. "Sir? We're coming in, okay?"

There was no answer. "Come on." Karen led Jim over the threshold and into the semi-dark room.

Suddenly, she was pulled from his grasp and, as he lifted the radio to call for help, Jim felt a blow to the head before being lifted off his feet and thrown across the room. The radio slipped out of his hand and skidded across the floor out of the reach of his searching hand. The front door slammed shut and the echo reverberated around a large space. The TV continued in a corner, a soap opera wife screaming at her straying husband.

"Karen? Karen?" Jim called, regaining his feet, one hand on the wall behind, then going to his belt where his gun used to sit. As swiftly as it occurred to him, Jim threw away the thought that he needed his gun. He didn't have it and that was that. Jim strained to listen through the sound of the television; was that Karen groaning to his right about ten feet away? Jim took a step toward the groan but stopped at a deep grunt a directly ahead of him.

Letting go of the wall, Jim pulled out his badge. "We're police officers looking for lost children -" he started explaining while pulling out his cell phone. But the badge was knocked out of his hand and he felt huge arms encircle him and lift him off his feet like he was a child. He fought to retain consciousness as the air was forced from his lungs and his ribs squeezed to cracking point.

Jim lost all comprehension of up or down as, arms still pinned by his side, he was jolted up and down. Finally his brain made sense of the confusion; he was being carried under the arm of the man who had attacked him. The man was running, taking him away from Karen, away from the radio and away from the officers canvassing the street. Jim tried counting the big man's steps and turns to keep some track of where he was but it was futile. At some point, he felt his phone slide out of his numbing fingers and fall to the floor.

After many turns and corridors, he was slung carelessly down and a door slammed shut behind him. Dizzy and panting, Jim struggled to his feet and found the door he had been thrown through; it was locked securely.

"Let me out of here!" he shouted uselessly at the door, banging on it with his hand but the door was solid. No sound could be heard from the outside and probably no sound was making it through. He pulled his cane out and began scoping the room.

Karen had been knocked out by the blow to her head. Not a heavy blow, but enough to send her to the floor in a boneless heap. The huge man returned from locking Jim in the room and picked up her unconscious body from the floor. He was gentle; she didn't fight like the other one. He stroked her hair and cradled her in his arms like a pet. He took her through the maze of hallways and rooms, some with glass panels, some with solid doors into one with a big window. He put her on the chair and looked around for something to tether her with. Her cuffs had slid free of her belt and he picked them up. That would do. Then he tied a rag around her mouth and a discarded rope around her ankles.

Karen woke to find herself alone, cuffed and tied to the chair. Jim was nowhere in the room and there was no sign of the man who had grabbed them. No matter how hard she struggled, she could not release herself. Her gun and cell phone were missing. She gave up struggling for now and looked around her. The room contained a big desk filled with knobs and sliders, there were stools, a jumble of discarded furniture and a huge glass window opened to another room. She was locked in an old recording studio. She could see the glass window from the corner of her eye. The room on the other side had a pile of furniture in the centre, a piano, music stands and stools. A lush red carpet had been ripped off and piled in one corner, leaving the grey concrete.

After several minutes a movement caught her eye in the other room. She inched her chair around until she was facing the window straight on and was buoyed by what she saw.

Jim, intact, was walking the walls of the room, getting his bearings. Though moving calmly, his expression betrayed his fear; he looked frantic. He must be wondering where she was, hell, must be wondering where he was. She called out behind her gag but there was very little sound; not enough to get through a wall and a window.

A common door between the two rooms abutted the window. Karen assured herself that Jim would get to it in a minute, he could untie her and they could get away. He disappeared from her view as he neared the door. She held her breath waiting for him to come through. When he didn't show quickly she struggled to understand, then she realized it must be locked too. She pulled harder against her bonds but nothing budged, she stood awkwardly, goose walking the chair and banged it against the door to get his attention. All she got were bruises from the ropes and cuffs.

Jim's hand appeared on the glass as he continued to trace the edge of the room. She battered against it, just a few inches separated her from Jim, but clearly the window and the door were designed not to transmit any sound between the two rooms. He walked straight past her.

Panting behind her gag, she stopped, sat, thinking, trying to work out how to get out when she saw the big man come back into the other room. Jim had almost completed a circuit of the room. The door opened only a couple of feet in front of Jim. She watched her partner's attention focus.

Their assailant walked in and Karen got her first really good look at him. He was huge; at least 6'8", maybe 250 lbs, maybe more and all of it muscle. He didn't look very old, 20 or 25 years, and had light brown hair cut in a childish style over a fairly pleasant face. He wore a T-shirt and overalls; his feet were bare and dirty. He eyed Jim warily as Jim spoke, not answering but closing the door. Jim extended his cane and took a step toward him, still talking. The big man just moved back and out of the way. Jim's face showed his anger and he spoke again, Karen could see spittle flying from his mouth, and saw him mouth her name, demanding to know where she was. The man stepped forward and shoved Jim in the chest.

The unexpected contact sent Jim flying back into the pile of discarded furniture in the centre of the room. He disappeared from Karen's view, and her heart raced in fear for him.

Jim stood again, his cane still gripped in his left hand, anchored firmly to the floor. From where she sat, Karen could see Jim's mouth moving. The big man moved around Jim, watching his face intently. It seemed the man was confused, still hadn't worked out that Jim was blind. Jim held himself erect and frowned at his attacker. Karen watched in horror as a sly smile crept over the stranger's face, and he tiptoed barefoot around Jim who struggled to follow his movements now. Smiling, the man in the overalls looked very dangerous.

His tongue held between his teeth, the big man stepped up slowly, reaching out, clearly trying to be completely silent. Karen felt like a child at a pantomime, desperately calling out to the hero that the baddie was coming "Watch out!" But the call that came from her mouth was defeated by the forgotten gag. Her struggles with the cuffs and ropes made her feel like a sleeper paralyzed in a nightmare.

Behind the soundproof wall, Jim could not hear her, and no matter how he turned he could not see the arm as it reached out and grabbed his cane, pulling it out of Jim's grasp like a bully pulling candy from a younger child. Jim staggered forward in surprise. Karen watched as his eyes shifted wildly and then stilled, his brain processing this latest information.

The huge man swung Jim's cane like a toy sword, swishing it from the left to whack Jim on the arm. Jim stiffened but otherwise didn't react. The big man seemed annoyed, he did it again and then used it like foil, poking Jim hard in the shoulder. Jim tried to grab the cane but couldn't locate it and the man just pulled it back. Then the giant threw the white cane into the pile of chairs and music stands, before shouting into the older man's face.

Jim stood still through this performance. Karen saw something flick across her partners face, something she had seen only once or twice before; fear. Blinking continually, his head turning slightly side to side, Jim took several steps back, reaching to put the adjacent wall behind him but his hand gave up still inches away.

Then he stilled himself, stood taller, hands out in front a little, his weight evenly on both feet, ready to fight. The big man moved swiftly, he grabbed Jim's outstretched hand; it disappeared completely inside his own. With enormous strength, he swung the detective around and off his feet- then let go- laughing in glee as Jim careened off and hit the window in front of Karen. No thump could be heard through the glass, but she felt it in her bones as she watched Jim's left shoulder and then his head hit the glass. He didn't even try to right himself but slid down the window and out of her sight.

"Jim!" Despite the gag in her mouth, the word clawed its way up her throat and fought to escape. Jim's assailant stood, pushed his finger up his nose, and looked down, presumably at Jim lying on the floor. He looked quite interested; a giant eight year old boy watching an ant burn under a glass. Karen's heart pumped thickened blood painfully, and she had trouble finding her breath, as dreadful images of Jim's death tried to assail her.

But only for a moment, because a hand on the window signaled Jim was getting up. Tears sprung to her eyes at the sight of the familiar hand, the small finger a little bent; apparently he'd broken it years ago on some perp's head. His wedding ring shone dully, and she wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind, if he'd worn it when he dated her friend, Ann Donnelly. A second hand joined the first and she pulled her senses back to the moment unfolding in front of her.

Jim stood, both hands on the window, head bowed, panting. She couldn't tell if he kept his hands on the glass to support himself or if he was orienting. Jim had explained the vertigo that came with blindness and how a tactile reference of up and down was key to keeping his balance. She saw it tested to the limit now. His throat worked as he swallowed, then dragged a breath deep into his lungs. His eyes swam languidly up to right, he blinked slowly, once, twice and swayed, tipping to the left, but his hand flexed on the window, he righted himself again and turned back to the room and the danger behind him.

The big man came toward him again; Jim stepped away and to the side, his right hand on the glass. Jim gestured with his left. He must be talking, trying to placate the aggressor with logic. Karen wished there were some way for her to clue him in on this man's immaturity. Jim was great with children, but would be talking to this one like he presented to Jim; a huge, violent and grown man.

The giant was having fun now and laughed; a big belly laugh, mouth open wide, his head thrown back as he held his stomach.

Karen's eyes widened. That was a wrong move. Jim's expression changed. His jaw clenched tight and he stood taller, slowly his head dropped and remained down, slightly at an angle. He raised his hands as if to ward off a blow to the head. But his hands, which signaled defense, were at odds with the rest of his body. Karen knew this stance. Jim was listening; he was in attack mode.

When the big man moved forward to tease him, prodding him in the shoulder, Jim took it, allowing the man to push his shoulder back with a finger, and then the same again. But the third time, as the tall man leaned down to prod him, Jim stepped forward into the space between them. He grabbed the arm before it made its mark, jerked hard and pulled it through and down, using the big man's momentum to bring him into contact with the window. Karen turned her face away, expecting to be showered with glass, and the wall of silence between her and her partner to be shattered. She watched from beneath her lashes as the giant's head met squarely with the thick glass with enough force to break both head and window. Instead they both just shuddered, intact. No blood, no splinters of glass.

Up close to the window, Jim held onto the huge right arm, his expression grim but unhurried. He was probably hoping he hadn't killed the guy. Karen saw Jim reach under his jacket for his cuffs and then she shrunk back in fear as the giant's left hand lifted and slammed against the glass; he was not dead or even out cold - merely dazed by the encounter with the plate glass wall. As he pulled himself up, Karen got a glimpse of his face; eyes and mouth open in rage; he turned and threw his left fist into Jim's stomach. Karen screamed; her muffled warning, merely reverberated impotently in her head.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Jim took the unexpected blow deep in his gut and doubled over, falling to his knees as the air exited his lungs in a violent rush. The force of the blow pushed him several feet back from the window, and Karen could see spittle dropping from his mouth to the floor.

Gasping, Jim hung his head, and turned side to side trying to find his attacker, but the big man kept moving now. Jim used the reprieve to regain his breath. He got up slowly and gave no indication that he knew where the other man was. Karen squirmed, concentrating, frustration driving her blood pressure up, as she watched the man swing his leg back to send his foot into Jim's gut. Despite herself she squeezed her eyes almost shut and turned her head away.

But Jim was ready; the slap of bare feet on the concrete made enough sound for him to locate his opponent. He heard the step- back, the lack of a second foot landing and had the move in his mind as the big man shifted his weight, and put all his effort into the kick. Jim feigned ignorance until the kick was committed, then turned into it, grabbing with both hands and using the momentum to bring the huge man crashing down, hoping to slam his head into the concrete floor.

Jim was well aware that if he didn't disable the other man fast, his chances of surviving this were severely limited. Jim grimaced; the hoped for crack of skull on floor was there but softened by something else hitting first. If the giant was still conscious the only chance Jim had was to get in close, where there was little advantage in sight. He wasted no time, but forced his feet under him and launched himself up and onto the prone body. Landing directly on the other man's chest, Jim's left hand slid off and smacked painfully into the concrete, the other searched for his attacker's throat. Jim scrambled to orient himself and situate the larger man, who tried to shift away. But the big man's movements were sluggish and Jim's weight held him down.

His right hand clamped as tight as he could around the huge windpipe, Jim squeezed to cut the flow of oxygen. The man's struggles declined. Groping behind his back, Jim found his cuffs. Praying the man's arm was not fully extended and beyond his reach, Jim followed the arm to a wrist and snapped on a circle of steel.

Gasping for breath, the man under him made an attempt to free himself and got a leg under his body. Jim was thrown off as the attacker rose to his knees and shook himself like a dog. He growled and Jim stood again, backing away, head down, focusing all his attention on the other man's movements.

The big man shook his head, drops of warm blood spattered onto Jim's face. Jim recoiled slightly and smacked the wall behind him, as a huge hand pushed him in the chest. He could hear the man breathing directly in front of him, could hear the slap of footsteps on concrete and the rustle of clothing as the man reached out and took Jim by the shirt collar and hefted him up the wall.

"Don't you hit me! Don't you hit me!" the big man shouted.

He shook the detective until his teeth rattled and picked him up off the floor. Jim felt nausea rise in his gut. Then the man pulled him away from the wall and threw him into the middle of the room. Jim's fall to the concrete was broken by some furniture, a painful edge under his legs, but enough to break the fall and save his head from slamming into the same unforgiving surface that he had tried to break his opponent on.

Jim reached behind him to sit up and felt a solid form, a chair leg, table leg, something. It moved under his hand and he clasped down.

This time when his attacker came roaring at him, Jim swung his weapon in a wide arc; up high, aiming for a head, a throat, anything vulnerable. Crack! The impact reverberated painfully through his arm and the man grunted in pain. But it didn't stop him and he came at Jim again, grabbing him in a bear hug and lifting him off his feet. Jim was astounded at the sheer size of this man as his breath was squeezed out of him slowly. He could feel the man's breath on his face and sagged, allowed his head to flop forward, playing possum, his weapon clutched tightly in his right hand.

Soon, the gentle lifting and falling of the man's chest under his cheek told Jim the man was taken in. Jim swung the club up and around, straight into the back of the man's head. He felt the body in front on him arch back and the arms released their hold. He heard the man fall deadweight to the ground, as Jim dropped to the floor. The sudden shock of landing, took Jim by surprise, as always.

With shuddering breaths brought painfully into his body, Jim staggered to his feet. His searching hands found the body in front of him and he checked for signs of life. The man was alive but out cold. Wasting no time, Jim took the cuffed hand and searched for something solid to secure it to. He found a big metal table too wide for the doors. He dragged the huge body over to the table and secured him. Moving away so that the man could not reach him without scraping the table along the concrete, Jim finally sat back on his heels to get his breath. He had thought the fight had taken it all out of him, and dragging the deadweight had felt impossible.

Now that he had done that, his energy seemed to flag and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. But he had to find Karen, make sure she was alright. He stood and tried to remember where the door was.

Gagged and cuffed to her chair, Karen watched from behind the plate glass. Relief flooded her; he was not only alive but walking. Pride, astonishment, and empathy warred for supremacy as she watched her partner, bloodied and limping, hands in front of him search for some orientation in the room where he had just fought a giant of a man to the death.

A chair, tumbled in the fight, below the level of his hands caught his foot; Jim stumbled and fell. He stood, righted it and moved on, pushing it before him. Finally he found the wall; he stopped and called again. "Karen!"

Karen watched him shout, knowing he was calling for her but she couldn't hear him through the barrier. She had seen no one else here, only their abductor, but it was possible he had accomplices, bosses probably, his low intelligence had shown not only in his eyes, but his actions, his assumptions.

Jim followed the wall around and found the door. Karen watched him leave; desperate for him to find her, reluctant to lose sight of him. He was searching for her and she had no way of guiding him; even if she had known what directions to give. She felt helpless.

An age later the door to the recording studio opened. "Jim! Jim!" she called through the gag and stamped her feet on the floor.

"Karen?" Jim stepped in; ever resourceful; he must have found a broom in one of the corridors along the way. He used it as a cane, located her chair, and reached for her. His hands met her shoulder first then, gently, he used the back of his hand to locate her face, the gag, and the knot at the back which he removed swiftly.

"Did he hurt you?" The concern in his voice almost made her tear up again. Her throat felt raw and hot.

"No, I'm fine but, Jimmy, my God, that guy. I can't believe what you did in there!" Words babbled out of her mouth uncontrolled as he explored further, to free her.

"You saw?"

Her voice was hoarse. "Yeah, this room looks into that one."

"The glass wall?" He nodded as understanding bloomed. "What's wrong with your voice? Did he injure your throat?" Jim's hands touched her throat gingerly while he asked. She shook her head; she found she didn't trust her voice completely. Unsatisfied with her answer but unable to find any damage by touch, he relented and his fingers left her neck, traveled down her arms to the cuffs at the back. "These your cuffs?"

"Yeah, key's in the top left pocket."

Again he had to slide his hand over her body, down her shoulder and brushing her breast. "Sorry." He sounded embarrassed; she wondered if he was blushing behind her.

She laughed, "Sorry? You apologizing for rescuing me, Dunbar?"

She couldn't see his expression, but enjoyed the chuckle as he stood behind her and groped for the keys.

Smiling now, he found the key and returned to her hands. He clenched his jaw; his fingers felt clumsy and the hole small. He dropped the keys; they fell to the ground and skittered off. "Shit." Frustration rose again and his anger threatened to boil up inside him. He hung his head for a moment. They needed to get free, get out and get away. Who knew if their attacker had any accomplices? His pathetic fumbling could be endangering Karen even now. "Sorry, I've dropped the key…" He swept his hand over the floor searching fruitlessly.

"Here, between my feet." Karen directed. Slowing his movements he found her booted foot and then the key. He felt for the hole with his index finger and slipped the key in. It turned smoothly and Karen pulled her hand out. He undid the other one and returned them to her.

She bent over to undo the ties at her ankles. "Jim, can you help with these, here at my ankles?"

He came around the front and his strong fingers made short work of the rough knot.

"We need to get out of here. Do you know where we are?" he asked, standing again.

"No, but it shouldn't be too hard to find our way out."

With familiar ease he took her arm in his hand and she led him carefully around the jumble of broken furniture in the room and out the door. Listening for signs of other men, before turning into any new corridor, she followed long burned out exit signs through the maze of rooms in the abandoned office building. They moved slowly, Jim limped, shushing her when she expressed concern. "It's nothing. Keep going."

At one end of a particularly long corridor, he stopped her, held up his hand. "Shh."

Her heart began to race, another attacker? Fear welled up inside. Despite his impressive success in the last fight, she did not want to see him tested like that again, ever.

"Crying, I can hear crying. A woman, maybe a child?"

Karen listened but didn't hear anything. "I don't hear it." She shook her head, cocked it and closed her eyes for a moment. "Maybe, very quiet."

"To the left." Jim stepped into a corridor.

Reluctantly Karen turned away from the exit and led him down the dim hall, around the litter of broken furniture, boxes and equipment. She breathed a sigh when Jim slowed her as they approached the second door on their left, "Here."

The door was locked. She remembered the time he had forced open a door in Brooklyn and been sucker punched for his efforts. She had no gun now. Hopefully there was no aggressor behind this one. Jim did not hesitate but stepped back and put his full weight behind his shoulder. The door splintered loudly and swung open. The wailing was clear to her now. She looked into another office room, again littered with desks, lamps, and other abandoned equipment. There was no one visible but she could see a door on the other side of the room. "There's another room behind."

She opened it, it was dark inside, some sort of supply depot, the floor was littered with carbon paper and Karen could see scuff marks where someone had slid on the carbon. There was no other sound.

"It's okay, we're here now; we're going to help you." Karen spoke into the gloom, "Jim, it's dark and the floor might be slippery, stay here." She stepped into the room. The wailing turned to a fearful sob.

Jim spoke from the doorway, "It's okay, we're the police. You can come out."

"Okay." The word came from the far corner of the room, between them, desks and chairs were tumbled in a pile. The little voice quivered and a hiccup followed.

Jim stepped forward, drawn by the need for comfort in the high pitched voice.

Karen put a hand on his arm to stop him from walking into the furniture and called to the child, "Come on, you'll be safe now."

A sniff and another hiccup indicated someone moving out from the corner. In the thin light coming in the door, Karen could see a child, no more than 4 years old, with a tear streaked face. "Come here, sweetie." Karen knelt and opened her arms. The child stepped forward and into them. She stroked the blonde curls, and murmured soothing sounds.

"Karen, we have to leave."

"Yeah, we're coming." She took the child by the hand and led her back to where Jim stood near the door.

"Are you the only one in here?" Jim asked in a gentle voice.

The little one nodded and reached up her arms to him.

"Um, she wants you to pick her up."

Jim smiled and squatted. The child moved into his arms and he stood.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

There were no more sounds in the hallways, and Karen breathed a sigh of relief as they turned into a familiar corridor. She spied her gun, phone, and the photos scattered on the floor ahead. "We're just about here. I don't see the radio though."

"I dropped it in the first room."

Karen opened the door and there it was, lying against the wall. She grabbed it and called in while leading Jim and the girl he carried out into the bright sunlight.

"What's your name?" Jim was asking the child who buried her head in his shoulder.

"Sophie." The little girl whispered in his ear, "Will the ogre come back?"

"No, Sophie. He won't come back. You're safe now," Jim whispered. She nodded and put her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Tom and Marty came running up the street. "Where you guys been? You should never go out of radio contact like that – you seen Riley and Rodriguez?" Marty asked his questions all in a row with no room for answers.

Belatedly, he noticed the girl in Jim's arms. "You found them?"

"Just one," Karen answered.

"Jeez, Jim, what happened to you?" Tom exclaimed.

"Nothing, I'm fine. I just had to cuff a guy." Karen's and Marty's eyebrows rose in unison. Despite his pissed off tone of voice and attempt to brush off the question; Jim did not look as if nothing had happened. Karen smiled and turned away from the other detectives.

A siren sounded as a patrol car pulled up and a couple of uniformed officers came over. Jim spoke over the little girl's head as they walked up, "We need you to pick up a guy in there. Be careful, he's a handful."

He turned to Karen. "Do you think you need to lead them in?"

"No," Karen indicated the open door behind her, "follow the signs that say recording studio. He's in there."

Jim nodded. That explained the piano he had banged into at some time in the struggle. "And we better search for Riley and Rodriquez."

Karen looked to Tom and Marty. "If they're in there, they could be hurt."

"We'll take care of that, you got this?" Tom indicated the small girl sleeping on Jim's shoulder.

"Yeah, go find the uniforms," Karen directed. She waited for the detectives to leave before saying, "The ambulance is here. Let's go."

"Fisk said her parents are on their way?"

"Yep, should be here any minute."

"She'll find it easier when her parents are here. Let's wait."

"You need to be looked at too, Jim."

"I don't need a bus, Karen. I'm fine." Jim protested, "What about you?"

"No." She shook her head. He looked a mess, his knuckles were swollen and red, he was trying to hide a limp and his breathing sounded shallow - if he didn't have broken ribs she was a fairy. There was blood on him, his, the other man's, who knew? But, she didn't have the heart to drag the sleeping child from his arms and a car was pulling up down the road a ways. "I'll let you off if you agree to drop in at the doc's on the way home."

Jim pursed his lips and nodded. The 'doc' was the ME, someone Jim knew would not be worried by a few bruises and scrapes; after all she saw dead bodies for a living so chances were he'd look pretty good compared to them. She'd patched him up before when he'd had falls or accidents he didn't want to draw any attention to. Not everyone was happy he was back on the job and too many hospital reports in his file would give them cause to send him to medical review.

A metallic blue Mercedes pulled up next to one of the squad cars. A blonde man and woman, hurried to the uniformed officer, but before he could even direct them to their child, the mother spotted Sophie in Jim's arms. She ran toward them. The officer followed more slowly.

"Parents," Karen warned. Jim fished his glasses out from his jacket, and ran his fingertips over them. Miraculously they were unbroken; he slipped them on. Then he turned toward the approaching footsteps, giving a smile as the frantic couple rushed up.

"Sophie, Sophie, honey darling, you're okay," her mother cried as Jim released the child to her father.

"Thank you so much. Thank you," said the man's voice was muffled in Sophie's curls.

"You're very welcome," Karen said.

"Did you find who took her?" the father asked.

"Yes we did," Jim reassured the man.

"Mr. Sheldon?"

"Yes?" The man turned to Karen.

"You need to have the ambulance officers look Sophie over before you take her home."

"They haven't seen her yet?"

"She seems unhurt and I thought it best to wait until you got here; to minimize her upset," Jim explained.

"And then we will need to ask you some questions," Karen continued.

"We'd like to do that down at the precinct," Jim finished off.

Mr. Sheldon looked from Jim to Karen and back again. "Of course, do we meet you there or…?"

"See to Sophie first. Then we'll have an officer bring you over," Jim explained.

A uniformed patrolman stepped up and smiled at the parents. The mother took Sophie in her arms and started toward the ambulance. Her husband hung back.

"Thank you again, Detective..?" The man held out his hand. Karen gave Jim's arm a surreptitious push and he extended it to shake.

"Dunbar, Jim Dunbar. And this is my partner, Detective Karen Bettancourt."

"Thank you again," he said to Karen, taking her hand also.

Karen smiled at him. "It's our pleasure. Go take her to see the medics now. We'll see you at the station when you are done."

The man joined his family.

"Let's go get cleaned up, Karen." Jim took her arm and she led him away.

"So, how exactly did you end up in this predicament?" Fisk was not exactly angry, seeing as how the detectives in front of him had gotten _out_ of said predicament _and _found the latest missing child; but these two seemed to get into a lot of trouble and it was beginning to worry him. The suspect had demanded a bandage for the back of his head the moment he had been brought in, so Fisk decided to tape the interview with his detectives, in case there was a legal issue coming up. These days suspects, and even convicted felons, seemed to sue at the drop of a hat.

Karen answered for both of them, "We were canvassing, on the other side of the street from Marty and Tom. We'd done 75 of the houses with no results. I showed the photo, the man looked like maybe he recognized the children and we stepped into the room to talk to him. Without any provocation or warning, he grabbed me and flung me against the wall. Next thing I woke up cuffed to the chair. I could see Jim in the other room. Then guy then just came in and attacked him. Again unprovoked - no warning. Jim defended himself and restrained the guy," Karen said, adopting Jim's point by point minimalist style of reporting. Karen swallowed her nerves. If Fisk had seen the whole thing, he would, no doubt, account for it a little differently.

"And you?" Fisk looked to Jim.

"The door opened, the man stepped back; we stepped in. Karen's arm was pulled out of my grasp and I heard a thump. I went to radio for backup but… then he hit me in the head and picked me up and threw me into a wall. I must have let go of the radio …." Jim licked his lips, if only he had managed to keep track of the radio. "Then he took me …" Jim squirmed, uncomfortable describing how he had been carried like a rag doll, "through some corridors and threw me into a room. I searched it but Karen wasn't there. It… took me a while to find the door and when I did, he came in and just attacked."

Jim hoped the ordeal didn't reflect on his face; he really had wondered if he would die in that room. The responsibility of protecting his partner weighed heavily on his shoulders and he wondered again if his efforts were enough, if there was more he could have done to protect Karen, if he'd been able to see. But they'd talked it through in detail and Karen was sure, the guy had moved so fast, she didn't think anyone would have seen it coming.

"Then what?" The Boss accepted Jim's actions to that point.

"We struggled, when I knew he couldn't come back at me I went to find Karen and we made for the exit. On the way, we found Sophie."

After a long pause, Fisk looked from Karen to Jim and back. "Are you leaving anything, and I mean _anything_, out?"

"No."

"No."

"Pretty much like Riley and Rodriguez, although they never saw the guy once he had locked them in a room." Fisk nodded. He knew there was more to this story. He looked at the swelling and grazes on Jim's knuckles. "Jim, how did your hands get so bruised?"

Jim resisted the urge to hide his hands. "I had no cane and no guide, Sir. I stumbled a bit."

"I thought you carried your cane when you didn't take Hank?"

Jim's color rose. "The suspect took it from me."

Fisk nodded and moved on. "Karen, you were able to observe Detective Dunbar when he cuffed the suspect?

"Yes, Sir. I had full view."

"Did Detective Dunbar use undue force?"

"No, Sir. I'd say he was quite restrained, considering."

Jim kicked her under the chair, in full view of Fisk. "Not excessive, no, Sir." She corrected herself, maintaining eye contact with her boss.

Fisk looked from her to Jim's impassive face. She didn't flinch. A bruise was beginning to darken on Jim's cheek, spreading out from behind the dark lenses. At least the black eye wouldn't show.

Fisk left sufficient significant pause for the two to realize this could be serious. "End of interview." He gave the date, time and pressed the stop button.

"Okay. The medics wanted to check the little girl a little more thoroughly; they're taking her to the children's hospital so the parents won't be in for another few hours. Why don't you two disappear on your errand to the ME?"

Jim raised his eyebrows. "You _know_?"

"I used to be a detective too, Jim."

"It's okay with you?" Karen couldn't believe she was hearing this.

Lt. Fisk sighed. "Karen, too many medical reports and he gets red flagged. Now, walking into a half open door, cutting his hand on a broken glass, even stumbling in an unknown building because he lost his cane -generally being clumsy - these things don't need to be in his file. As long as they don't interfere with his ability to solve a case, _I_ couldn't give a damn about them. But there are people who would like to see him gone and those things can be ammunition. So yeah, I don't mind."

Jim was impressed; Fisk knew about those? Hell, he probably knew them all.

Fisk gave Karen a restrained smile. "And I expect, if it's serious, that you'll _tell_ him you're taking him to see Miss Shelby and take him straight to Bellevue."

Jim shook his head. Karen would love that.

"Go." The Lieutenant was already onto his next task.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Karen pondered out loud. "Hm, I wonder just how serious it is this time."

Jim picked up his pace and the front of his shoe made contact with the back of Karen's calf. "Ouch that hurt!"

"Sorry, Karen, just clumsy I guess," he said sweetly.

She giggled.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Jim sat up on the slab, his shirt stripped off his shoulders and arms, hanging from his waist where he had insisted it stayed tucked into his trousers. He stripped his singlet over his head. Jenny Selby held her bottom lip in her teeth as she looked him over. "Detective, you really should see a doctor this time…"

"Doesn't your business card say MD, Jenny?" he countered and then he winced as she prodded a bruise on his shoulder.

"Have you ever thought there might be a reason they only let me work on the dead bodies?"

Jim had to smile at that one. "Come on, Jenny, have a heart, you know I'm terrified of hospitals."

Karen grinned at his "fake fear" expression, sometimes the guy could be such a clown.

Jenny sighed and looked to Karen, who shook her head. "I suppose it won't do any good to tell you to go to a doctor if you feel bad in the next couple of days?"

"If it makes you feel better…"

She gave up on that approach.

"He threw you into a plate glass window twice?" Jenny asked as she checked the second shoulder which had a similar, if not as heavy, bruise.

"No, I did that one myself," Jim sounded like a child being told off, "- a door."

"I'd hate to the see the door."

"It'll probably show up on your slab later," Karen volunteered and was rewarded with a laugh from both Jim and Jenny.

"The toe tag will say: 'John Door'."

"I must remember to look for it on the knob," Jenny giggled, "It's usually hung it on the toe, but…"

Jim smiled and shook his head, she had a wacky sense of humor, this girl; unlike her boss who was very efficient and by the book.

While she joked, the ME got on with the task; prodding and poking, she took his left arm and moved it up and around. She stood on a step to fully extend it, gauging pain level by watching his expression. Since he had first come to her after a particularly bad spill at a curb, she had learned that he very rarely admitted to pain. Luckily he wasn't as good at hiding it as he used to be. She could see it in the tightening of the muscles around his eye, the way he held his head and the tension in his mouth and jaw. Really it would be easier if he would just tell her where it hurt. "Any pain in this arm?" she asked anyway.

"Oh, it's a bit bruised I think," he admitted.

Karen rolled her eyes and levered herself up onto the opposite slab. Judging by the colors emerging on his chest and arms, they'd be here a while.

Jenny stepped down and tugged at Jim's left arm, straight out in front and then down at an angle. He stiffened and sucked in a breath. "Well, you've saved yourself from major damage to these shoulders with the workouts you've been doing, Jim. I don't think you'll be able to hold Hank's harness for a few days, but there's nothing permanent."

She moved down the arm, past two red welts, darkening to bruises, to his elbow; he had no reactions to any tugs or twists there. As she put her fingers to his wrist he pulled back reflexively. It was the same hand the man had used to pick Jim up and throw him to the wall, and the same hand Jim had later slammed into the concrete floor when situating the guy.

"I'll be gentle." She took it in her hand and rotated it, pushed it back and he almost jumped off the slab, an involuntary groan telling her more than his face, which he held immobile with brute force. "Sharp?" she asked.

He nodded grudging assent, and took shallow breaths.

"Is this your cane hand?"

"No." Jim was grateful for such a small mercy. Regular use of a cane included strain, knocks, and that particular jerk that told him he's pushed straight into an obstruction. It would have been hell on this wrist.

"Good." Jenny clearly understood the significance. "It might be broken. I'll need to X-ray it."

She stepped away to the X-ray machine. "Karen, can you bring him here, and we may as well do that knee at the same time."

Karen pushed the small step under the table where Jim sat. As he schooled himself for the small fall to the ground she put her hand on his knee and pushed down, "There's a step here."

Jim reached out with his leg and found the step, he squeezed her arm lightly in thanks. Not having to drop to the floor was a blessing, both for his injured knee and for the moment of vertigo he always experienced dropping off something.

They started toward the X-ray machine.

"Take your pants off, Detective. I can't do the knee through the trouser leg."

"She's determined to see you naked, you know," Karen whispered teasing as Jim began to unbuckle his belt.

He stopped. "Is she watching?" he whispered back.

Tempted as she was, Karen had long ago decided she'd never lie to Jim. White lies would be too easy and had potential to damage the trust they had worked hard to build. "No, she's out, getting film or whatever."

Jim smiled and stripped quickly, hissing in pain as his left knee bore the weight of his body. Finally in socks and trunks and a singlet he followed Karen to the X-ray area and she prodded him into place.

"You know this would be easier in a hospital, at least their equipment is designed for live bodies," Karen complained.

"Nah, they don't have good comedians." Jim smiled laying himself on the gurney under the machine. "How we going for time?"

"We got plenty. Don't worry." No way he was skipping out of this before Jenny had checked every inch of him.

"Fast work, Detective Bettancourt." Jenny gave Karen a big smile.

"Call me Karen, I feel like we're friends we get to see each other so much."

"Cool," Jenny grinned.

Jim shook his head on the table. "Can we get on with this?"

The X-rays showed nothing broken in the wrist; like the knee it was just strained. Jenny suggested he find a knee specialist,

"I know you think you are superman, but, you should know from your boxing background that athletes and knees have to look after each other. I don't think you'll last long in the field if you continue to do this to your knee. It's the second time I've X-rayed it in as many months and I hate to think what's going on with your cartilage and other bits and pieces. It's obviously up to you, but you're an idiot if you ignore me on this."

Jim nodded, silently, without any smart comment, and she knew she'd made her point.

Karen kept her mouth shut with an effort. She wondered how Jenny could talk to him like this and although Karen always pussy footed around, he'd get defensive. Maybe if she could inflict a little pain as she talked, the way Jenny did…?

"Both lower ribs have hairline fractures … and this one too." The ME pressed her fingers in laterally and Jim tensed. "I'll tape them and they'll heal in a couple of weeks - as long as you don't repeat your exercise of today." She kept her voice firm and serious but turned to Karen with a big smile. "They'll probably make breathing hurt like hell." Then she whispered, "Maybe he can do your paperwork for you, while you're out in the field?" Jenny mimed sitting straight up typing, even going as far as pushing in the old fashioned return on a manual typewriter. "And he could catch up on all the filing, I hear it's important for cops." Jenny kept her voice completely serious but Karen's laughter spilled out.

"Would you let him do _your_ filing?" Karen asked between gulps for air. The earlier tension of the day, finding its way to release in her laughter.

She sure would, Jenny smiled a warm genuine smile and beamed at the man between them; anything to keep him around. "You got a point there, Karen."

Jim pouted. "Come on, quit picking on me."

"Who us?" The girls spoke in unison, their feigned innocence erupting into laughter again.

But Karen couldn't let it go like that. "No, Jenny, I need him, he's a pretty good body guard."

Jim nodded, satisfied.

Jenny taped his wrist and his ribs, alternating between admiring and suggestive faces at Jim's physique as she did it, and grinning at Karen in between.

Karen barely managed to stifle her laughs. It was a badly concealed fact that the young ME had a crush on Jim. If it weren't for the fifteen year difference, she would have made a play for him- that and the fact that he was married. But she knew he thought of her as a kid and took it all good naturedly.

Karen couldn't quite work out what it was that made women look at Jim this way. He was just Jim; her partner, a good man, sure a bit of eye candy, but more work than a sighted partner and hell to work with sometimes. Maybe that was it; she saw so much of him that she was oblivious to the charisma most women saw. She narrowed her eyes, Jenny obviously saw it…

Jim was eager to get dressed and back to the case. Jenny put a hand on his chest and pretended to swoon silently for Karen. "Wait up, Detective. I'd like to shoot something into that knee so you can keep working your case."

Jim looked like he was going to refuse painkillers. So Jenny continued without allowing him to get his word in, "When the medication wears off, your knee is likely to swell to say …" She took his hands and moved them about eleven inches apart. She spoke in an exaggerated whisper, "Won't be able to keep your pants on then." Jenny crossed her fingers in the open. Karen fought to keep the smile off her face.

"Or I can give you something oral, quicker acting but not very long lasting."

Karen almost choked. Jenny was miming a kiss as she gave the second option.

Jim's brow furrowed as he thought seriously, then, "No, it'll be a late night. Shoot me."

Jenny prepared the syringe on a tray as she explained, "It will kick in, in about an hour or so and will last until tomorrow. You can come back tomorrow for another one."

"Around the same time?" Jim asked, "I'll take that option."

Karen wondered what the chances were he'd be sitting here, this time tomorrow.

"So long as we have time to fly by here…" Jim added.

"Sure." Jenny put her hand on Jim's knee, her finger prodding. He winced. "It's going in here." Then she slid in the needle and pushed through the medication.

While Jim dressed with relief and discomfort in equal measure, Jenny conferred silently with Karen. _In twelve hours or so, he'd be crying for another shot so not to worry, he wouldn't try to avoid coming back. _

"Let's go Karen." Jim was back in work mode already, "Thanks again, Jenny, I appreciate your discretion."

Jim's voice drowned out her the silent conversation. The ME switched too, holding the authority of her role. "Just make sure I see you tomorrow."

Jim nodded. "I'll look forward to it."

_That, Karen_ _thought, was a very strange conversation to have with a woman who saw dead bodies for a living_,


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

In the car, Karen was silent for a while.

"What are you thinking, Karen?"

"She's got one hell of a crush on you, Jim."

"You're the one on a first name basis," Jim spoke defensively. When Karen didn't bite at that one, Jim chewed his lip. "You think I should find another ME?"

"You'd ask Dr. Madden?" Karen suggested in an ironic tone, naming the other local ME.

"Oh, no way," Jim was mortified. Dr. Madden was efficient; great at deducing causes of death, identifying grizzly remains, and seeking causes of pre- and post-mortem wounds. No way would he want her poking around on his body.

From all Jenny's joking and teasing, she saw him as warm and breathing; Dr. Madden might see him as not much more than a body with a pulse.

"Anyhow, why would you say such a thing? She's just a kid really." Jim made a dismissive expression.

"Well, that miming she does with me while you two talk, for one."

"Miming?" Jim turned to her, puzzled.

"Oh, never mind," Karen teased.

"No, tell me," Jim sounded curious. "I won't be mad, just tell me."

"Well, when she said she'd give you something oral if you wanted," Karen started to laugh, remembering the silly faces Jenny had made.

"No." Jim was shocked, imagining something much worse.

"Yep, she made kissing motions in between her words; pretty funny really." Karen turned to watch Jim's reaction. "She'd make a good comic."

Jim looked relieved and Karen wasn't sure why. Then she felt the blood rise in her face when he asked, "Does anyone else do that? The miming thing I mean?"

"Why do you ask?" Karen looked around wildly for some way to get out of this conversation.

Jim answered slowly, reluctantly, "Sometimes, in the squad mostly, I feel like there's a conversation going on," he lifted one shoulder as if unsure he should go on, "you know, in front of me, but behind my back."

"Any reason you think that's what's going on?"

"It suddenly goes quiet - sort of but not really. Like clothes rustling… I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just paranoid. They say it happens."

Karen puffed her cheeks. Doing it when it had no affect on him was one thing; if it made him feel paranoid, that was entirely another thing. She needed to get his back on this one. "Yeah, I guess we all do it at times. But it's never mean. You know…" She felt embarrassed, like she'd been found to be a bully at school.

Jim just nodded. "Good to know I'm not imagining it."

He turned to look out the window. Hank hung his head over the back seat onto Jim's shoulder and he reached up absently to pat the canine.

As they got out of the car, about fifteen minutes later, Jim asked, "Even the Boss?"

Karen came around to Jim's side, unsure if he could manage Hank with his taped wrist and bruised shoulder. He stood still, harness in hand waiting for her answer.

"I've never seen it," she said, remembering Marty relating a few times when Fisk had done exactly that.

He nodded, "Thanks for being straight with me. Let's go see Sophie's parents."

She watched thoughtfully as Jim walked off; no stiffness showing in his knee or his arm.

Returning from their visit to the ME, Jim and Karen entered the squad and headed for their desks. Hank stopped several feet short of Jim's desk and Jim began to reach his hand out, seeking the obstacle. Marty spoke up; he'd rolled back in his chair. "I found this while we were looking for Rodriquez and Riley." He placed Jim's cane, neatly folded, in his hand.

Jim nodded, "Thanks. I appreciate that, Marty." He was grateful to Marty, and a little surprised the gesture hadn't come with a cutting comment. He couldn't help but ask, "No smart remark about losing it?"

Marty's voice backed up his statement, "I saw your perp. He's a big one, Jim. I'm impressed."

Fisk stepped out of his office. "Jim, Karen, your suspect- no ID on him, prints have no matches and he's refusing to talk. I had them stash him in the tombs. Get down there. I want the info out of him fast." Marty rolled back under his desk and Jim motioned Hank forward.

"Yes, Boss. What about Sophie's parents?" Jim settled Hank in his spot and took off his coat.

"Tom, Marty, you take care of that."

Karen got off her phone call. "Let's go." Jim noted they were not alone in their trip to the tombs and turned his ear to see if he could recognize the footsteps. Karen took in the question in his movement. "Boss," she said quietly and he gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement.

The sergeant in the tombs looked up from his paperwork as Jim and Karen stepped up to the desk. "We're looking for a white male," she said "just been processed, 6'5" dark hair."

"He's in cell 4A."

"You'll need to open up for us," Jim explained.

"You want to go _in_ there?" The officer was incredulous. He looked pointedly at Jim and spoke quietly to Karen, "He started getting all twitchy just being mirandized; then, he decked an officer when we printed him. Why don't you question him from outside?" Then he raised his voice for Jim's benefit, "There's only bars on this one, no glass."

Karen glared at him, disgusted. "No, we'll go in." Lieutenant Fisk stepped out from behind his detectives and looked pointedly at the sergeant.

Sergeant Watts sighed, stood from behind his desk and pulled the keys from the wall, shaking his head. He pointed at two uniformed officers sitting at a desk drinking coffee. "You two – come." Then he blanked his face in a vain attempt to hide his disapproval as Karen led Jim down the corridor.

At the cell, the Sergeant opened the gate and the two uniformed men went inside. He locked it behind them. The men in blue spoke quietly to the big man standing with his back to the bars.

Fisk studied the man Jim and Karen had arrested. Tall, six-five easily and muscled like a body builder, he looked like he'd been crying, and he had smudged finger print ink onto his face. The guards spoke to him quietly, and he nodded, wiped his face and sat at the table, the cuffs and leg chains clanking loudly. The two officers took positions at his shoulders, ready to restrain him if needed.

Fisk listened as Karen described the scene for Jim, positioning the walls, the furniture and the people. "… about four feet between the bars and the table," she finished off.

Jim nodded to Karen and took a deep breath, "Let's go get our info."

The sergeant shook his head again and rolled his eyes up but pulled out his keys when Fisk jerked his head at the gate.

The white male in the cell watched, his face unreadable, as Karen walked in, turned a chair around, and sat near the end of the table, out of reach.

Jim followed her through the gate, keeping contact with the bars and then leaned back on them, directly in front of the suspect.

Fisk moved a couple of feet to the side, so he could see both his detectives and the suspect. The suspect's eyes were hooded over, his nostrils flared, and Gary suspected his hands clenched under the table. The big man ignored Karen and kept his eyes on Jim.

The sergeant stayed by the gate, keys in hand.

"You might remember us? I'm Detective Bettancourt, this is Detective Dunbar." Karen gave the man their names and asked him to give a statement about the abducted child. He glowered in response but said nothing.

"What's your name?" Jim asked colorlessly.

The suspect closed his mouth tighter, his eyes flicked to Karen and then back to Jim.

Karen scooted her chair a little closer. "Come on, we'll find out soon. What's your name?"

Again no answer but as he looked from Jim to Karen and back again, Fisk was sure he saw fear and something else, resentment perhaps?

"Not talking will not prevent us from finding out. You are going to be charged with three counts of assaulting a police officer, one count of kidnapping and perhaps more. It is in your best interest to cooperate with us." Again Jim sounded fairly reasonable. But there didn't seem to be any change in the suspect's expression. Fisk frowned. What was going on here?

The big man turned from Jim to Karen, his top lip quivered but he didn't take his eyes from hers. "I'm _not _telling." The voice was deep, but the intonation was like a child. He burped and sniffed.

Jim turned his face away, down to his right; he was very still for a long moment. Karen had said she suspected the man had low intelligence. Was it more than that? Then he straightened, took two steps and met the table with his hand. He listened as the guards shifted on their feet and Karen repositioned herself.

Two hands spread on the table between them, Jim leaned toward the suspect. His words were pointed; his manner and voice were toneless. "What have you done with the children you abducted?" Jim waited; all his attention focused on the man in front of him. When he was met with silence, he pushed again; harder words, the same toneless quality in his voice. The man would have no clue from Jim's body language. "Do you want to be incarcerated?"

Karen kept her eyes on the suspect. His mouth was open as if to answer but no sound issued. Plainly he didn't understand. He seemed glued to his own image reflected in Jim's dark lenses.

Finally, he pulled his eyes away and looked at Karen; confusion was clear, he had no idea what Jim was meant.

Karen nodded at him, she pushed her chair away and stepped up next to Jim, drawing him back to the bars and stood with her back to the suspect, whispering so only Jim and Fisk could hear, "He has no idea what you are asking."

Karen watched with interest as disbelief and disgust showed on the Lieutenant's normally stoic expression. He stood with his arms crossed, head tilted and looking down as if reluctant to speak, "He looks… innocent… Jim."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Both Karen and Jim shook their heads.

Jim answered, "No, Boss, he took Sophie, there's no doubt." Jim turned to Karen. "He's not just a good liar?"

"No, Jim, he looks like he's got a clear conscience, maybe he doesn't understand - like a kid." She looked at the Lieutenant, seeking confirmation of what she was seeing.

Fisk nodded. As a team, Jim and Karen were excellent with children, but this man had imprisoned Karen and assaulted Jim.

"If his conscience is clear, it's because he doesn't have one." Jim made an unsatisfied face; trying to reconcile this latest information with the size and strength of the man he had fought. "A kid? How old?"

Karen shrugged, "You know, in the head, Maybe five, maybe eight. I really can't tell."

"Do you think you can get him to talk, Jim?"

"I don't know, Boss, maybe we need a psych consult," Karen looked very unsure.

Jim shook his head and held his hands out, "Karen, there's no time. If he took the other child, we need to know now."

Fisk agreed. A psych would slow everything down, and if this was the man who had abducted those other kids, they had no time to waste.

Karen looked at her partner, frowning. She had watched, helpless, as Jim was beaten mercilessly, and now he was proposing to go back in there and cajole his attacker like a school kid.

"Karen?" Jim prompted.

"Yeah, alright." If anyone could do this, it was Jim. She'd found he had a way of disarming the young ones, and just hoped it would work with the enigma behind them.

Detective Dunbar turned back to the room, he stepped away from the bars and took a seat. He took off his glasses, opened his watch and checked the time. Food could be a great motivator for kids. He smiled at the man who had tried to kill him only hours ago. "You hungry, kid?"

"I'm not a kid!" the huge man jumped up and shouted; his face inches from Jim's. The guards grabbed his arms and made him sit, glancing at the detective and then each other. Detective Dunbar must have felt that shout like a punch in the face but he hadn't even flinched on the outside.

The sergeant began to talk but Fisk silenced him with a glare. He turned back to watch the scene in the cell.

Karen's hand was at her weapon, she stood protectively behind Jim who remained seated. Jim's hands were on the table; the grip on his sunglasses relaxed, as he folded the arms, put the glasses in an inner pocket, and looked up toward the man towering above him.

"You need to sit down, or they'll get angry. You don't want them angry at you do you?" Jim still sounded reasonable, unafraid and unemotional.

"No," the big kid mumbled.

"You won't tell me your name, and you're not a kid, so what are you?" Jim prodded.

"I'm a big guy." The kid looked between Jim and Karen, then back at the guards. Fisk thought he could detect pride in his voice.

Jim smiled. "Okay Big Guy, are you hungry?"

"Yes." The reluctance to talk was evaporating.

"What would you like to eat?"

"French fries?" he sounded hopeful.

Jim turned to his left and spoke over his shoulder, "Sergeant?"

The sergeant looked at Fisk who raised his eyebrows and nodded impatiently.

"Yes, Detective, I'll organize it," the sergeant agreed and hurried off, handing the keys to Fisk as he left.

His voice quiet and slow, Jim continued, "The sergeant will get you some french fries. Will you answer some questions now?"

The man shook his head.

Shoe to shoe, Karen gave Jim the double tap that was their code for a negative answer in an interview. "Why not," Karen asked, "after all, you're getting your fries?" She dropped her pad and pen on the table and sat down, pulling her chair in close to Jim's.

"He hurt me." The man looked at Karen from under his lashes and raised his chin at Jim.

"You got hurt?" Jim asked, feigning a little surprise in his voice.

"Yeah, here." The man pointed to the bandage on the back of his head.

"But you've got a bandage on your head now. So it must be okay right?" Karen answered reasonably. Karen hoped Jim could see the humor here. Most men would have at least had a concussion from the blow Jim had inflicted with the chair. This one had a minor scalp wound; probably bled a lot but nothing more. Fisk smiled, he liked the way Karen fed Jim the information he needed. Subtlety was something she had lacked when she started here, now she was learning it in bucket loads.

The big man looked at Karen suspiciously.

"And you hurt Detective Dunbar, too. So you're even, right?"

"Who?"

She pointed to Jim. "Detective Dunbar; you hurt him." She followed Jim's lead, not accusing, just pointing it out reasonably.

"He hasn't got a bandage," the boy sounded indignant. Karen thought of the taped ribs, the knee filled with pain killers and anti inflamitories. Jim had stripped the taping from his wrist already, but the imprint of the giant hand was clear in the bruise that was beginning to show. Karen blinked, astonished, the man really thought he hadn't hurt Jim.

"Did you _try_ to hurt him?" she asked, digging for at least a confession of the assault on Jim.

"Maybe. He looks okay. No." The kid either didn't remember or was flat out lying. Then he began to giggle.

"What's so funny?" Jim asked, smiling.

"Dective Dumbar. Dective Dumbar, Dective Dumbar. Just like the elephant." He broke into laughter and pointed at Jim. Jim joined in.

"I bet your name's not so dumb, hey?" Jim tried.

The big kid clamped his mouth shut again and looked away from Jim.

Karen looked back at the Lieutenant; this was going to take more time than they wanted. She saw the sergeant arriving, loaded with food; at least he had understood Jim's strategy and was supporting it. "Fries are here."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Stuffing his mouth with fries, the man finally relaxed. Jim was still seated opposite and Karen stood just behind Jim, to his right.

Jim smiled, "Good fries?"

When the kid grunted assent, Jim continued to talk, "We found the little girl that you had with you, Sophie. She's with her parents now. Where did you find her?"

"The yellow one? I don't know," he said spraying fried potato over the desk. He grabbed the coke the sergeant had thought to bring and sucked up a huge mouthful.

"Okay. Was she alone or were there other children around?"

"There were lots."

"And you just went up and took her?"

The big man nodded at Jim's question. Karen tapped Jim's foot with hers, their signal for yes.

"Why'd you pick her?"

The big man smiled. "She was pretty. And Henry had one just like her."

"Henry?"

"My friend, Henry, he has the whole set."

Jim was confused; he leaned back toward Karen, eyebrows in the air.

"No idea," she said under her breath and under the slurping noises in front.

"What set does Henry have?" Jim probed, sitting forward again.

"You know, the whole set, from the Cheerio's box." He looked exasperated, and turned to Karen. "Dective Dumbar doesn't even know about the set." He shook his head at Karen, smiling patronizingly at Jim.

"Tell me about the set," Jim requested.

"There's a yellow one, a black one, a red one, I like that one best, and one like me. We play swap, but Henry said I had to have some to play."

"Swap, like with cards? Collecting cards from cereal boxes?" Jim clarified.

"Duh. Dummy. Your name is good," he laughed again and stuffed his mouth, "Dum Dum Dumbar."

"So, Henry had cards and you didn't?" Karen clarified.

He nodded, smiling, and Karen tapped Jim's foot again.

"No, Mom only buys Wheatabix. not Cheerios." He looked down then brightened up. "But now I got my own."

Karen turned to Fisk, was this an admission? He shook his head but didn't take his eyes from the men at the table.

"How many in a set?" Jim asked, still reasonable. He could have been talking to an eight year old about trading cards.

"Five."

"And you got all five now?" Jim sounded impressed.

The kid nodded, oblivious to what he had just admitted. "And mine are more pretty than Henry's."

With a sinking feeling, Jim smiled again. "And the others that you took, were they pretty ones too?"

"Yeah."

"The one we found, Sophie, what made her pretty?"

"She had yellow hair."

"Did you get one with black hair before?"

"Aha, and one with red hair and one …" The kid nodded, then looking up and around he spotted Karen and pointed at her, "like your lady," he whispered. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward as if to speak in confidence, "Yours is real pretty."

Karen kept eye contact with the guards, making sure they didn't move forward and distract him in case he was about to tell them what they needed to know.

Jim smiled as the cold set in his stomach. The missing children included a Chinese child who would have had black hair, a red head, and one with brown hair.

"Where do you keep the other ones?" Jim asked. "We looked in the building we found you in but we only found Sophie."

"I don't know," the man spoke around another mouthful of fries.

"You don't know or you don't want to tell me?" Jim pushed.

The big man hesitated for a long time. He looked up toward the ceiling, thinking, first to one side then the other, his tongue poked out the side of his mouth, trying to remember. "No, I don't know where they are."

"Okay, Big Guy." Jim relented. They had to find another way into this man's memory. He did know where he had left the children, and it was their job to find a way to that information.

The big kid took another huge slurp of coke. "They took my cat away again."

"Who took your cat?" Jim asked. This was rather like interviewing small children, following the non-sequitur remarks, dealing with their immediate needs.

"Mom and Pop."

"Why?"

The kid shrugged.

"You don't know why?" Karen asked.

He shrugged again. "Can I have more fries?"

"Sure." Karen turned to the sergeant, he nodded and left reluctantly. "You know, Detective Dunbar is really good at finding things, maybe he can find your cat."

"I got the other ones now."

"The children?" Karen asked.

The kid nodded, finishing the giant coke and holding it out to one of the guards who took it from him. The kid gave him a charming smile. Karen gave the signal for a nod.

Jim leaned forward. "But where are they, Big Guy? Where are you keeping them?"

"I don't know where they are." It was if he only just realized he had lost something very important to him. "And I don't know where my Mom is." His lip trembled and he looked at Karen with tear filled eyes. "Or my cat." He sounded like he was going to wail again.

"So, maybe you want your cat back?" Jim asked.

He thought, and nodded. He turned to Karen. "You really think _he_ can find my cat?" he whispered as if revealing some big secret. "He can't see!"

"I found your little yellow haired girl, didn't I?" Jim countered.

"I guess." The man looked at Jim, thinking. "Yeah, okay. You can find my cat."

Jim nodded. "To find your cat I need to ask your Mom and Pop something. What are their names?"

"Mom and Pop, duh" At least the kid was answering now, even if he seemed to think Jim was the local retard.

"Alright." Jim turned his chair a little, so he was not straight on but at an angle to the big man. "What's your phone number?"

"What's yours?"

"554 986 234" Jim announced like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You know yours?" he challenged.

"555 678 765"

Jim recited the precinct address then added, "Did you learn your address yet?"

Puffing up with pride, the kid recited, "3/14 Sutfin Boulevard, Queens." like a parrot, like a million kids recited when they were 4 years old.

"And what's your name, Big Guy?"

He folded his beefy arms over his chest and looked suspiciously at Jim from under his brows, mouth in a tight sulky line. This was clearly a taboo question. "Mom told me not to talk to strangers."

Karen reached a hand out and gave him a gentle smile. "We're not strangers, you know us now."

"He hurt me!" indignation burned bright in the giant's childish words.

Karen recalled the moment when this huge man had picked Jim up with one hand, and threw him, like a rag doll, to the wall. She held back the harsh words that rose in her throat, pushed back her chair and turned away.

"And you're mad at me." The man's eyes welled with tears again, his mouth twitched, the tears spilled over and he dropped his head to the table with a thump.

Startled, Jim's head jerked back, but there was no alarm from Karen and no shift from the guards. He relaxed again when the big child pulled in a shuddering breath and started to wail. "I want my Mom."

The key turned in the lock. Karen watched Sergeant Watts carry in more fries, a burger, and a soda. "Looks like your fries have arrived," she said.

Jim touched Karen's arm. "Boss still here?"

"Yeah."

"You have some more fries, and we'll be back." Jim stood and she walked him over to the bars.

"Yes, Jim?" Fisk pulled the phone away from his ear.

"You got that address?"

"Yeah, I'm on the phone now. You keep digging. I want to know where the rest of those children are when I get back."

Fisk ran into Tom and Marty as he stepped out of the elevator.

"Boss, we found out who he is. There's an Amber Alert out for him."

"An Amber Alert?"

"Says he's a kid in a man's body. The parent's are coming in from Queens, and they're frantic," Tom read off a sheet.

"This the address you got?" Fisk handed Tom the note he had written and took the sheet he held.

"That's it. How'd you –"

"Jim and Karen. Find out how soon the parents will be here and meet me down at the cell." And Fisk was back on the phone. "You put as many officers on this as you need to, we have four more children to find…" and he was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Fisk arrived to find Jim and Karen alone, outside the cell, conferring. "Where's the kid?"

Jim turned to the Lieutenant. "He needed a bathroom break."

"Alright," Fisk looked at the fax Tom had given him, "He has an Amber Alert out on _him_. Selway and Russo found his parents, they're on the way and, oh, his name is Dimmey, Dimmey Palmerston."

"That might help."

"So, what else did you get?"

Karen held her hands out in defeat. "Boss, we're digging but, his memory? Doesn't seem to work like ours so …"

"We have to find some way to jog his memory. We need some things for him to draw on, big paper, colors. And I need a map of the area between his house and where we found him. I doubt he walked all the way from his place to where we found him. We should canvass the bus routes and trains."

"That's in progress."

Heavy footsteps signaled Dimmey's return, the steps awkward and accompanied by the clanking of chains.

Fisk looked at the wide eyed expression. Dimmey towered over his guards, who looked like they were protecting him. "He still need all that?" Fisk asked quietly of Jim and Karen, indicating the restraints.

"He's unpredictable, Boss," Karen answered. "And faster than he looks."

Jim shifted his weight, impatient to get back in and find out where the other children were.

Lieutenant Fisk nodded, keeping his eye on the huge man. "Any feel for if the other children are alive or…?" he asked, looking from Karen to Jim.

"No, Boss. I don't think he even knows." Jim eased the tension in his neck and turned back to the cell. "We'll get the locations as fast as we can."

Karen hesitated but Jim headed straight back for the cell, following the trail of bars back to the closed gate.

"I'll bring the things you need," Fisk said to Karen with a nod, "Go."

The guards had arrived with Dimmey and waited a few feet back from the cell gate where Jim stood. They looked from Jim to Karen. "Um, Detective?" one ventured.

Exasperated that they didn't just ask Jim to move back, Karen gave them a pointed look and spoke quietly to Jim, "We're in the doorway." She guided him out of reach of the big guy. At her prompt, he followed the guards in again. She waited seeing Fisk arrive with butcher paper and crayons and a street directory.

"Here, Dimmey, you can do some drawing while we talk if you'd like," Karen said as she put the paper and crayon packet on the table.

Dimmey's eyes lit up and he wrestled with the packet of crayons. He grunted and the crayon packet went skidding across the table as he failed to pull the wrapper off. One of the uniformed guards placed it back on the table in his reach.

"You need a hand with that?" Jim asked.

Dimmey sounded annoyed, "No, I can do it!" Then the packet opened with the sheer force he applied. Several crayons went flying.

Karen's mouth twitched. The guards were caught between being guards and babysitters, one of them diving to pick up crayons under the table. She kept her eye on Dimmey but he was intent on the paper in front of him, he'd chosen black and red to start with and mixed them with abandon, but even the stick figures of most eight year olds would have been an improvement on what he managed. She couldn't make out what it was supposed to be.

"Nice colors," She commented, "red and black."

"You drawing the children you picked up, Dimmey?" Jim asked.

"Yeah." Dimmey looked around for another crayon. "I need pink."

"Here's pink." Karen handed it over.

"What do you need pink for?" Jim asked.

"The train."

"A pink train?" Jim asked, turning to Karen.

She shrugged. "I don't know."

Dimmey continued drawing, oblivious to the conversation in front of him.

"We got that directory?"

"Yes."

"What train line runs from his place to our precinct?" Jim's thoughts raced ahead. "At the back they have a subway map overlay."

Karen was already there. "The F train."

"Did you enjoy your train ride today, Dimmey?" Jim asked while Dimmey reached for another crayon.

He nodded, Karen tapped Jim's foot, their code for affirmative.

"You got on at Sutfin Station right?"

"Yeah."

"Were you alone there?"

No answer. He picked up the yellow crayon and started what could have been a person.

"Is that where you found Sophie, the girl with the yellow hair?" Karen asked.

Dimmey shook his head.

"No." Karen supplied.

"Did you have any of the other children there with you?" Jim asked.

Dimmey ignored him, concentrating as he selected a green crayon and began to draw boxes.

"Which child is there now?" Jim persisted.

"The red one." He took a red crayon and started drawing something in the green box.

Karen stood and went to Fisk. He got himself connected to the patrol in the area of Sutfin Boulevard Station, which was only a block from Dimmey's home.

While Fisk worked this information, Jim continued digging for more. "Can you draw me a picture of the other children and where they are?"

Dimmey shook his head, a crayon rolled away to Jim's hand. He picked it up.

"Dimmey?"

"I need that one."

"This one?" Jim held up the crayon.

"Yeah. It's pink."

"If I give it to you, will you draw me a picture of where the other children are now?" Jim repeated.

Dimmey shook his head again. Karen returned.

"Why not Dimmey?" She asked.

"I don't know where they are." He started to cry. "I want my Mom."

"Would you like Detective Dunbar to find her?"

Dimmey nodded again. Karen gave Jim the single tap.

"I'll go see what I can do, and I'll be back, Big Guy, you wait here?"

The man nodded again and sucked on his drink.

"This one's for you," he said, handing the first drawing to Karen.

"Thanks. You want to do another one?" she asked. Dimmey picked up the pink crayon Jim had left and began again.

"You good to stay?" he said under his breath so only Karen would hear. When she confirmed she was, Jim pushed back and stood a little awkwardly, the painkiller injections to his knee were wearing off. He waited while the gate was unlocked.

Outside the cell, Fisk called out, "We're around the corner here, Jim."

Jim walked up to Fisk. "Any word on the station?"

"They're looking, but so far nothing."

Jim closed his eyes, he squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Karen's getting him to draw. I wish I had something faster."

"The parents are due any time now." Marty said, "If that helps?"

Jim turned to Marty, wondered who else was here. He nodded, "Good, we'll use the parents as leverage. Boss, can you hold them upstairs for a little while?"

"Sure. Just don't take too long. I get the idea they feel like theirs is one of the missing children, not the abductor."

The group was silent; this situation was a tragedy for all, the victims, Dimmey and his parents.

Jim took a breath, ready to go back in. "He doesn't like to give up info but seems willing to confirm info we feed him. We'll start trying public places where he might have left them."

Jim turned and went back to the cell, running his hand along the tomb wall, until he came to the cell door. "Officer?"

"Yes, Sir, door's open."

"Thanks."

Jim entered the room. "Dimmey?"

"Yeah?"

"I found your Mom."

Dimmey sounded happy at that, "And my Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm going to bring them both here. You want that?"

"Sure do." Dimmey looked up at Jim as he took the chair in front. "You found them quick. Did you find my cat?"

"Not yet. But if you'll help us find the other children, I might try."

"I don't know where they are." He started a new drawing.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

For the next twenty minutes Karen tried to decipher drawings. They'd gotten lucky with the train station but nothing further came from that strategy. At the same time, Jim talked to Dimmey, prompted by Karen searching the directory for possible places Dimmey could have visited.

"Did you go to the library?" Jim asked.

Dimmey started to look evasive. Karen nudged Jim under the desk.

"Good Dimmey, did you meet any children there?"

Dimmey remained silent.

"Dimmey, I need to know these things and if you want me to find your cat…?"

He looked away from Jim and held his mouth closed.

"You're not telling?" Karen asked and double tapped when Dimmey shook his head.

Jim stood up; he began to roll up his sleeves. He paced the small cell. "Dimmey, I can be your friend, make sure you see your Mom and Pop, help with your cat, or I can be your enemy again. Like before. You want me to hurt you again?" Jim kept a straight face. The two cops behind him looked at each other, amused at the thought of blind Jim hurting this giant of a man. Karen glared at them.

"You not talking, Dimmey?" Karen asked. He shook his head. "No?"

Jim moved quickly back to the table directly in opposite the man. He slammed his fist to the table and Dimmey lunged for him. Jim moved back fast, out of reach and the two guards grabbed the big guy.

Fisk stepped closer to the bars, watching closely as anger burned in Dimmey's face. The veins on his head stood out and he strained against the two guards who held him forcibly and pushed him back into his seat. He struggled a little, his chair scraping on the ground.

Jim seemed cool, expressionless, although Fisk could see the veins in his neck standing out and the detective's hands were clenched. "You don't like the men restraining you, Dimmey? They'll even hold you still for me while I hurt you." Jim's voice wasn't loud. It wasn't harsh. He smiled.

Dimmey shook his head.

"No," Karen said quietly.

"Then you need to tell me what I need to know."

Dimmey began to tremble, his anger replaced by fear. "I lost them."

"You lost them. Where did you lose them, Dimmey?"

"The red one, I had at the station and I was hungry so I put him in a little room and when I came back I couldn't get him out. He was crying and I couldn't get him out. A policeman saw me and I ran and the train started moving."

"The train; this was near your house, Dimmey?"

Dimmey nodded, tears streaming down his face. "Yes," Karen supplied.

Beyond the cell, Fisk was on the phone, organizing the search teams who had already been sent to the stations closest to the house.

"Boss getting this?" Jim turned to Karen.

"Yeah, he's on the phone to officers who are in the area."

"What little room, Dimmey? The bathroom?"

The big man kept his eyes on Jim's; and shook his head.

"No." Karen voiced.

"How big was the little room, Dimmey?" Jim kept his attention on the man-child.

The big man held his hands apart about a foot.

Karen scrambled through the pictures of the last twenty minutes, there, green boxes. "Lockers." She turned to Fisk. He nodded and spoke into the phone.

For two hours, the interview continued; a combination of cajoling and aggression bringing out the information slowly piece by piece. A library, a park, a department store.

As Dimmey told them about the last child, the one they had found in the office building with him, the Sergeant opened the cell and Fisk walked in. He stepped in close to Karen and said quietly, "Parents are here. We've found all the children."

In his chair opposite Dimmey where he'd been trying to squeeze out more information, Jim sat back, he looked exhausted. "We're done?"

"Yeah, we're done." Karen watched as Jim pushed up from the table, an unintended groan escaping his lips.

"Dective Dumbar, will you find my cat now?" Dimmey charmed. "I tole you about all the kids." Dimmey seemed unaware of the tension his delays in remembering had caused.

"I will find out what happened and tell you," Jim said to the man at the table. Then he leaned over, close to his face. "And if you ever take another child again, I will find you and it will hurt a lot more than it does now."

He tried not to limp as he left the cell and walked down the corridor with Karen.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

The next day, when they met up with Fisk, Tom, and Marty in the Lieutenant's office,Tom and Marty were discussing Dimmey's cat.

"… so she took it away."

"It had been dead for a week?" Tom asked, disgusted.

"That's what she says. Also said not to tell him, apparently he got violent when he was told his dog had died. They had to shoot him full of Thorazine to control him. Apparently it's not hard to set him off."

Jim hung his head, grossed out by the image of Dimmey carrying a dead cat around for a week. Their searches had returned four of the five children to their parents alive and in good shape, albeit scared. But the second one, the one at the station, had died, suffocating in the locker he had been shoved into.

"We got the TOD on the child yet?" Jim asked the boss.

"Not officially, but the ME called to say she'd put it at 11am or so." Fisk watched his oldest detective. "Jim, the kid was dead before we even knew he was missing."

Jim and Karen both nodded. Eleven am was when they were had knocked on the door and he had opened it. It wouldn't bring the child back, or comfort his parents, but at least the detectives didn't have to live with the idea that if they'd moved faster, he'd be alive today.

"DA's take on it?" Tom asked the question they were all thinking.

_Court, Several Weeks Later._

"The defense calls Detective Bettancourt, 8th Precinct Homicide."

Karen took the stand, made her oath and gave her attention to the defense lawyer who had decided her best bet was to make the police officers look like they had brutalized the defendant into confessing.

"Did you observe Detective Dunbar arrest the suspect?"

Karen looked from the counsel in front of her to the judge next to her. "Arrest him? It was hardly a standard arrest."

"Just answer the question, Detective," The judge ordered.

Karen scowled. "I did."

"And did you observe the interrogation of the accused?"

"No, I was involved in the interview."

"Okay. During the arrest, did Detective Dunbar hit the accused with a chair leg?"

Karen shook her head and looked at the judge. "Yes, he did but only after the man –"

"Only the question. Yes or no, nothing else, Detective."

"Yes," Karen grimaced and looked at Jim sitting at the prosecutor's table. With his glasses on and his mouth still his expression was unreadable.

"During the interview that you attended, did Detective Dunbar threaten to hurt the accused?" The defense attorney merely sounded curious but he question was dangerous.

Karen didn't answer; she looked to Jim, yearning for eye contact, some way to show him she didn't want to go along with the defense attorney. As if aware of her attention on him, Jim smiled a little and turned his head away from the attorney he had been listening to.

"Your Honor, since the detective seems so unwilling to answer such a simple question I request to play the relevant portion of the interrogation for the court."

"Granted."

"I'll answer," Karen spoke up.

But it was too late; the woman who was representing Dimmey had already pressed the play button.

Karen grimaced. She had played directly into this woman's hand with her reluctance. The attorney had wanted to play the tape all along. Jim's voice came from large speakers that had been set up previously.

His deep tones were menacing, she remembered how he had leaned over the kid, as if to stare into his eyes. Jim angry was truly frightening and it came through as clear as a bell, on the tape.

"Dimmey, I can be your friend, make sure you see your Mom and Pop, help with your cat, or I can be your enemy again. Like before. You want me to hurt you again?"

There was a pause. The sound of Dimmey sniffling perhaps.

"You not talking Dimmey?" Karen heard her own voice. She sounded nasty. Then her cue to Jim to translate Dimmey's head shake - it sounded like she was provoking the kid. "No?"

There was a loud crack, the sound of a chair scraping back. Karen remembered Jim slamming his hand into the table and Dimmey lunging for him, fire in his eyes, looking more like an animal than a human being. Chains rattled and there was grunting; the guards had had to use considerable force to push Dimmey back down into his seat.

The DA rolled his eyes. He would bring the guards in, get them to explain away the noises, but the impression would still be left. It sounded as if Detective Dunbar had come through with his threat, that he had hit Dimmey and the guards had held him down while it was done.

"You don't like the men restraining you, Dimmey? They'll even hold you still for me while I hurt you." Jim's voice wasn't loud. It wasn't harsh, one could almost hear a smile in it, and it was chilling. Karen glanced at the jury. Every one of them was caught up in the drama, living the moment and siding with the big child the parents had earlier described and who sat now, scared, humble, and about as intimidating as a big puppy.

"You may now answer the question. Did Detective Dunbar threaten to hurt the accused?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Detective. You may step down."

Karen left the stand. She took her seat next to Jim and felt him reach for her hand under the table and give it a squeeze. "It's okay," he whispered. She nodded, forgetting he couldn't see it. He listened to her hair brush her jacket and smiled.

The defense attorney continued, "I am not saying that Dimmey Palmerston is a completely innocent human being. I am not saying that he should be allowed to wander the city and have the freedom that we all have, because clearly Dimmey Palmerton is not capable of looking after himself as an adult.

"But what we have seen and heard today, shows you that Dimmey is a quiet 5 five year old in an adult's body. Like any five year old, he found some friends to play with and one of them played hide and seek with him in a very dangerous area. But what was the child doing in the railway station unguarded? Where were his parents? They were the ones who should have secured the safety of their child. Let's face it, if Dimmey were three feet tall instead of six, we would not be here today. In his mind, Dimmey is three feet tall. The child he played hide and seek with was, in his mind, the same age as himself. And," the attorney stopped to wipe away a tear, "I am as sad as anyone in the courtroom here that he hid in the locker and could not get out.

"But let us not compound that mistake, that sad mistake that has cost a child his life and a family one of their four beautiful boys; let us not compound it by locking Dimmey in a lockup, depriving him of any chance to play, and depriving his parents of their _only_ child."

"Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar found Dimmey and proceeded, from the moment they had him in their control, to frighten him-"

"Objection your Honor, the detectives are not on trial here."

The judge looked from the prosecutor to the defendant's lawyer. "You have a point, however, so does the defense. I'll allow it."

The DA closed his mouth tightly and sat. Fidgeting and making notes in deeply chiseled writing.

The defense smiled and continued, "Detective Bettancourt and Detective Dunbar continued to torment him with promises of finding his parents for him, and even of bringing back his dead cat, if he would confess to them that he had taken these children and that he had murdered a 5 year old. I will not force you to listen to the tapes, spread over several hours of interrogation, where they played bad cop good cop until this young man was so confused that he admitted whatever they asked just so he could see his parents again and on the lie that Detective Dunbar would bring back his dead cat.

"Lastly, if you should be thinking that somewhere, somehow police brutality might be justified by the need to find a missing child, or even a child that has been killed, then think about this: Dimmey Palmerston was hit on the back of the head with the leg of a chair by Detective Dunbar. In the opinion of the doctor we introduced to you today, that blow was sufficient to have killed, had it landed even an inch from where it did. And Detective Dunbar, who drove that chair leg home, into Dimmey's head, is blind. He could no more aim a blow like that accurately than he could drive a car safely. All I can say is thank God they took his gun away."

The judge slammed her hammer down. "Recess."

The court had virtually emptied before Jim turned to the DA. "Chris, what do we need to do to turn this around?"

"We're going to have to show the jury what he did to you. Show that you acted in self defense."

"But, it's not Jim that's on trial here; he shouldn't have to defend himself." Karen was frustrated and indignant.

Jim turned to Karen, one hand up. "It's not for that, it's to show that he is violent." He turned back, "Right?"

The DA nodded. "Their whole case is basically to try and show that Dimmey is just a kid, we have to show that he is a man and needs to be handled like one.

"Did you guys manage to dig up anyone else who will testify to previous violent behavior?"

Jim shook his head. "We haven't had the time, but now we'll have to make it. How much time do you think we'll have?"

"Well, I can probably get a recess to last until Monday, but that's it."

"Alright. I'll ask the Lieutenant if we can have Tom and Marty help out too."

"Let me use a half hour or so to start the jury thinking in our direction, then we'll hit them with whatever you find when we get back after the weekend."

"Coffee break?" Jim asked hopefully. The court room dimensions were uncomfortable for him. He just wanted a break; to get outside, or back to familiar surroundings, at least somewhere without the echo's and vagaries of twenty foot ceilings.

"Sorry, we can have some brought in, but we need to go over your testimony before the recess is over."

Jim's shoulders dropped. He hated trials. This one was more full of bullshit than any he had attended, and keeping a pleasant look on his face, when all he wanted to do was scream, was giving him a monster of a headache.

"I'll get coffee." Karen patted his arm and left.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The DA started taking Jim through the questions he would be asking in the next session, "What happened when you first encountered the defendant?'

"We knocked on the door of the deserted shop, the defendant opened the door and we stepped inside. Karen was pulled away from me- "

Chris stopped him, interrupting, "If you answer it that way I'm going to have to ask you to clarify that. I don't want to give the impression you were hanging on to her or anything."

Jim pursed his lips, and took a small breath before answering, "But I was; she was guiding me."

The silence stretched; two men at very different stages of accepting a blind cop in the force. Finally the lawyer took his eyes from Jims. "Okay, How about you say: "I felt Detective Bettancourt pulled off her feet."?

That worked, it was true and it did sound less… blind. "I felt Detective Bettancourt pulled off her feet and heard her land heavily." Jim found the words sat easily.

"Better, then what happened?"

"I reached for my radio to call for backup when I was hit in the head, picked up and thrown into a wall."

"Was he standing behind you or in front of you when he hit you?"

"Chris, I have no idea." Jim's exasperation vented. He took a breath, turned away for a moment, re-gathering his calm. He knew how this went, the attorney just needed to get the words right, to give the right information and often _how_ it was given was more important than what. Also, despite how unfair it was, the jury would have more sympathy for him if he'd been grabbed from the back, no matter that he couldn't see it coming from the front.

"Okay, wait. I was hit from behind and thrown into a wall."

"Good." Chris gave a snort, and made notes. "Then?"

Jim remembered the journey down the corridor, he avoided it, "I was thrown into a room and the door was secured."

"Thrown?"

"Yes, Chris, like a sack of potatoes or a discarded rag doll." Jim could hear the bitterness in his own voice. Recalling the incident made his stomach sour and roil. Ever since his reinstatement and getting his confidence back on the job, he had refused himself the right to feel overwhelmed; to wish for what he had lost. But that day, as he fought the unseen assailant, it had been as if his determination was swamped by the situation. Even an able bodied man could feel helpless when in the control of a giant like Dimmey. Add to that the turmoil of imagining his partner nearby, possibly hurt, possibly dead, definitely needing him and him being unable to even see her…

"Skip how you went looking for Karen, it just makes you sound pathetic," Chris read through notes he had made previously, "And when did you see the defendant next?"

Jim closed his eyes for a moment, reigned in his annoyance, before continuing, "A short time later, the defendant came back into the room. I asked him where Detective Bettancourt was. I told him we were police and he needed to cooperate with us. He didn't answer me but, when I attempted to leave, he pushed me."

"Pushed?"

"He placed his hands on my chest and shoved me backward. I hit some furniture and a wall."

"Did you threaten or touch the man in any way?'

Jim hesitated. "I did not threaten him. I may have touched his arm in reaching for the door but if I did it was a light touch and the shove he gave me was not an appropriate reply." Jim licked his lips. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last that he had reached out for a door or a wall and found a body there instead, and it was easy for someone who was guilty or felt boxed in to misinterpret it.

"Jim, you've got to control your expression better, you are looking guilty here, what happened?"

"As I said, I may have touched him, by accident, but …" Jim stood up and motioned for Chris to do the same. "Take me to a door," he ordered. Chris gave Jim his arm as he had seen Karen do and guided him to the nearest door. Jim opened it slightly, positioned Chris in front of it and stepped back.

"I stood here, he was there with the door behind him," Jim stepped toward the door, reaching blindly in front of him to locate it, his hand brushed Chris's jacket and his arm. "Like that."

"Okay, good. Give the answer you gave, if need be we can show them." Chris brushed past Jim.

Karen returned in time to watch Chris walk back to the prosecution table, threading his way, alone, through the small gate, skirting the defense table and taking his seat to write notes on his yellow pad. Jim stood next to the door, his lips in a tight line, Karen wondered is smoke would soon appear out of his ears. She deposited the coffees on the table, although she would rather have dropped them in Chris's lap. "Asshole," she whispered so only Chris could hear.

He looked up, confused and his eyes widened as he watched her move quickly to Jim's side. Dunbar's head swung toward the sound of her heels tapping on the polished boards, and he visibly relaxed. Chris' blush heated his face but he kept his silence, knowing the detective would be more embarrassed if he apologized.

Seated again they continued. While Jim described the fight Chris was silent. After some time of no questions and no note scribbling that he could make out Jim prodded, "You listening?"

"Yeah. I'm a bit stunned. Drink some coffee while I think."

Karen pushed his coffee to him. "Aspirin?"

"You getting psychic?" Jim smiled his goofy grin and popped two pills from the packet she placed in his hand.

"Something like that."

Chris had finished his thinking. "This could be very good."

"What Jim being attacked by the hulk?" Karen's sarcasm was sharp.

Chris turned from her, ignoring her comment. "These blows he landed, you got any bruises left?"

Jim had no idea, "I doubt it, this was weeks ago."

Karen was shaking her head. "No, I've seen them in the locker room, they're pretty much gone."

Somewhat reluctantly, Jim admitted, "Jenny has pictures."

"What?" Chris looked happy but confused.

"The doctor Jim uses," Karen explained, then turned to Jim, wondering when the ME had managed to take them. "I didn't know she took pictures?"

"I asked her to when I went back for the shot the next day. I had a feeling I might need to defend myself." Jim looked pretty unhappy about it. "Hey, when I hit him with the table leg? I wasn't sure I hadn't killed him."

Chris looked a little green in the face. "Do _not_ say that on the stand – no matter what. Anyhow, I thought it wasn't that hard, the police report says he didn't even have a concussion?"

Jim just shook his head. He didn't know Chris wasn't watching, but searching the report in front of him.

"Nope, not even a headache," Karen answered for him.

"Is that on the tape?" Chris asked hopefully. "Don't worry. I'll have someone go through them. I'll need those photos; we can blow them up and show the damage he caused."

Jim and Karen waited while he finished looking through his notes.

"Alright, you're as ready as you'll ever be," Chris said, then ruined his confidence boosting by asking "Oh, one more thing, Detective Dunbar, will you be able to find your way to the witness stand? Or do I need to take you?"

Karen glared at him as Jim answered pleasantly. "I'll be fine, thank you."

"Okay, we've got another fifteen minutes." Chris was already on his phone by the time he was out of the court room.

"Need to map the walk to the witness stand?" Karen asked.

Jim sighed and stood up. "Wouldn't want me to look blind now would we?" He mimicked Chris's voice and he took Karen's arm and pulled out his cane.

"You'd rather Chris asked you to play it up, Jim?" Karen asked sweetly and was rewarded by a comic look of horror on is face. They laughed together.

"All rise."

"The Prosecution calls Detective James Dunbar."

Jim stood and smoothed his coat. He stepped behind Karen and to the edge of their table; then took one more step to the left. His foot touched the push pin Karen had positioned on the floor earlier, and he took seven confident steps forward. He reached out and found the swinging gate. Once his hand was on it he knew exactly where he was. He smiled up at where the Judge sat and stood in the witness box. As advised, he swore on the Bible. Current jury testing showed 8/12 jurors believed people who swore on the Bible while only 6/12 believed people who swore an oath.

Chris led him through the questions without surprises. There was no need to demonstrate the possible touch to the defendant, for which Jim was grateful. He had practiced walking to the witness box but would have needed a sighted guide for a trip to the door and back and the prosecution's strategy included playing down his blindness.

At the end of his testimony, he felt good; as if he had been given a chance to answer the accusations the defense had made, but he knew it was premature. He would have to wait to ask Karen how the jury was reacting. Prior to the shooting, from all his years in court, he had been able to read a jury superbly. The sounds of rustling and murmuring from the jury box were only that now, he didn't have a clue as to their attitude. He hoped Karen would have the knack.

The judge gave the prosecutor the weekend recess and Jim and Karen headed out, ready for a long haul. Jim called Fisk. "Boss, is there any way we could get Tom and Marty for the weekend? The defense is going to win despite the confession if we don't find some evidence of violence in Dimmey's past."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

"How'd the trial go?" Christie asked over a dinner of coq au vin, peas, and some strange mash.

Jim blew out a long breath and picked up his wine. "Still going. The defense is trying to show that I beat the confession out of him and he's an innocent 5 year old." He drank deeply, not really tasting the sharp white. "We have to find some evidence of his dark side."

She didn't answer. He put the wine down and reached over for her hand but the space next to her plate was empty and remained that way. "Something wrong?"

He heard a rustle and squinted in her direction. "You shaking your head, honey?" He tried to make the question light but inside a cold knot formed, he hadn't done anything to deserve a serving of the silent treatment. "Christie?"

"No, I'm just, you know…"

Jim pushed his seat back and moved quickly to her side; before she could get up and move away. He ran his hands down her bare arms, so smooth. He kissed her shoulder. "Tell me."

His head was close to her face, he could hear her swallow. "I guess I was hoping we could do something this weekend, you know…"

A sinking feeling began in his stomach. "I thought you were working on that new proposal?"

"Yeah, but I finished it, and I put it in this afternoon." She sounded proud of herself.

"Well done. We could have gone out for dinner, to celebrate. I wish I'd known." Perhaps if he got her talking about it, she wouldn't erupt.

"It's okay, I tried to call at 4 o'clock but you were in court, so I guess you couldn't take the call."

At 4 o'clock Jim had been being accused of brutalizing a child. "I wish you'd left a message."

"Anyhow, this case, why is it taking so long? You said the guy confessed."

Jim took her hand in his and sat down again. "You need this for eating?" he asked when she tugged at it.

"No, I guess not."

"Good, then it's mine." He smiled and explained the path the defense had chosen, attacking how Karen and he had worked him to get the information from Dimmey.

"So, _did_ you threaten him? Are you allowed to do that?"

"No. I'll get a reprimand for it." Jim shrugged, how to explain this? In the room, with Dimmey, knowing there were four more children out there somewhere, stolen from their parents by a giant of a man with no conscience. Karen and the Lieutenant had both trusted that he would do what he had to and no more. If necessary, he would have pushed far harder than a threat to save those children.

Jim felt the anger rising again, it showed in his face. "You have to understand, we needed to know where those kids were. As it was we were barely in time to save two of them. We couldn't afford to give him the time to decide to tell us, we had to make him."

"But you say he's like five years old. Jim? How can you threaten a five-year-old child?"

"Christie, he's not five, he's twenty five. And six foot eight and two hundred and sixty pounds. That's like _two _of me."

She didn't answer him. How could he think a five year old could stand up to an adult?

"Honestly, he needs to be in jail, he's very dangerous."

Christie tisked, "A five-year-old."

Jim couldn't believe his ears. "Do you remember the injuries I came home with? That the _child _gave me?"

"You've had taped ribs before, you said it wasn't that bad." She flung the words at him, like cold sand in his face, and pulled her hand away from his.

"I didn't want to worry you, but the man was trying to kill me, Christie. He didn't know who I was, he had no beef with me and yet he tried to kill me." Why wouldn't she see reason? Why wasn't she on his side?

"Yeah, well you should stop being a cop, so people aren't going to try and kill you, so I don't have to worry about you all day long."

Jim sat blinking; wondering how he had set this off, when he had tried so hard to smooth things over. "Christie, please, let's not fight." He reached for her hand again but met only open table, her plate; he left his hand out in the hope that she would meet him half way but it remained empty while she fired steel tipped words at his face.

"I can just picture you, Jim, standing over him, your sleeves rolled up, probably forgot to take those damned intimidating glasses off as usual. She mimicked his voice and a menacing tone, "I'm going to hurt you if you don't tell me you did it."

He heard her chair scrape away from the table, something landed with a clang in her plate. "You always think you're right. Maybe someone else did it and he just confessed because he was frightened."

"Christie." Jim couldn't believe she would think that of him. He tried to explain as she stalked into the kitchen. "_He_ told us where the children were. The only way he could know where they were was because _he_ had abducted them and hidden them."

Smash! A plate landed in the sink, she threw in another, and then, by the sound of it, a wine glass.

"Yeah well, you didn't save that little boy did you?" She spat the words at him, and started running water into the sink.

Jim's anger bubbled, he'd felt enough guilt over things he couldn't prevent, how dare she throw that at him? "_He_ killed the boy, Christie, not me. He locked him in a locker so no one would find him, and the child died of asphyxiation. And it happened before we even found the guy. Christie you're not making sense." Jim felt angry, attacked, and confused, how could she think like this? "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _me_? What's wrong with _me_?" Christie's voice was shrill as she screamed. "Why don't you ever ask what's wrong with _you, _Jim?"

By now, Jim had stepped into the kitchen. He sought her with his hands, felt the edge of her arm and tried to hold her, but she pulled her arm away. "That hurts." Her voice was low and mean. "You going to hurt me too, if I don't say what you want?"

He let go, stood back, bumping into the stove; something sloshed over and hot liquid soaked his waist. He tried to grab it but only succeeded in knocking something else off its perch.

He turned back to her, the pots falling behind him. "Christie, I would never hurt you."

"How would you even _know_? You're pathetic." Her voice came from near the front door, not by the sink where he thought he was facing her, a moment later the door slammed. Jim turned slowly back to the stove; one by one he turned off the gas rings and carefully righted the pots. Next to the stove, he found a pie cooling, the smell of rhubarb wafted up. Tears threatened, his favorite, she'd made his favorite and somehow he had ruined the night. But really, were they so far apart in their thinking that she felt he had done wrong? Why couldn't he make her see sense?

She didn't come home that night. He'd cleaned the kitchen, waited and waited, called her phone and left messages. Finally he went to bed.

They were in the Lieutenant's office, listing all possible people they could contact and all areas they could canvass, looking for something that would help their case, when Christie finally called Jim. "Sorry, I really have to take this," he said, pushing past Marty who stood in the doorway.

He went to the locker room. "Thank goodness, Christie, I've been worried sick."

"Not worried enough to stay home and wait for me, on a weekend. Just had to get back to your work didn't you?" She was as bitter now as she had been last night.

"I explained last night, we're all in here, the Lieutenant, all the detectives, we have to find some evidence or this guy will walk."

"Yeah, well, why am I surprised that you'd rather be in the squad than here facing the music?"

"No, it's not like that."

"Then come home. It's as easy as that."

"No, Christie, you don't understand."

"Of course, it's your wife that's stupid right? I'm the one who can't understand what it's like to be blind or to be a cop, to be so important and save lives. Well what I do is important too. Our life is important too, you know."

"Honey, of course you're important. But just like you, I have a job and a boss, and sometimes I have to do things when I'd rather be with you."

"Then come home. Are you telling me that if you told your Lieutenant you really needed to go home, that it was an emergency or something, he would make you stay at work?"

Jim hesitated, but he'd made a deal with himself, and he did not lie to his wife, not even a white lie. "No, he would let me, but I want this guy to stay in jail, I don't want him out on the streets where he can abduct or kill other children."

"See, you _do_ care more about other people's lives than ours," she sighed. At least she wasn't shouting today.

"Why don't we talk about this when I get home, Christie?"

"I think it's your turn, you need to stay somewhere else tonight, Jimmy. Don't come home."

"No, Christie, come on." He hated the pleading in his voice but what she was asking was too much. But she had hung up. He threw his phone down and grimaced as it slid away. A cursory sweep in front of him, by the lockers, didn't reveal its hiding place; he'd have to go dial it, or perhaps ask Karen to help him. Sometimes he felt like his own worst enemy.

He went back to the boss's office.

The squad interviewed over sixty people, anyone who had known Dimmey in the last five years. But everyone spoke of him as a loving and gentle child. No one came up with stories of brutality or violence.

"That was the other neighbor." Karen dropped the phone back on its cradle.

Jim sat up straighter. "And?"

"And, I just found out why we're not getting any help." She looked waited for Marty and Tom to make sure she had their attention.

"You torturing me on purpose, Karen?" Jim asked sweetly.

"No, Jim, sorry. The Palmerstons called everyone, briefing them on the case and coaching them on what to say to us. The defense attorney's strategy, of course."

"No," Tom was indignant. "They're not allowed to do that."

"Well, they have."

"That explains a lot of things, fuck. I was going to take my boy fishing this weekend."

"You may as well." Lt Fisk walked out of his office. "From what I hear this is not making any difference. I'm sorry, Jim."

"No, you're right."

Tom, Marty and the Lieutenant left pretty quickly. Karen made a couple more useless calls. "Why don't you head home, Karen, enjoy the rest of the weekend? I'll call Chris and tell him the news."

"What about you?"

Jim ran his hand through his hair. "I'm going see what else I can come up with."

"Alright." Karen stood up and came to his side. "What is that?"

"What?"

"On your hand? I didn't want to ask when the others were here."

"Oh, it's nothing; I cut myself on a wine glass."

"Nothing? Blood is seeping right through your bandage. What'd you do, try to hide it from Christie?"

Jim clenched his fist. Cleaning up after Christie's tantrum took a long time. And, as careful as he was, a sliver of glass or plate had escaped him and sliced across the back of his fingers.

"Ew, that's in a bad place." Karen sucked her breath through her teeth, "It's going to make trailing a wall difficult." She pulled the makeshift bandage away.

Jim shook his head in disbelief. How can Karen get it right away, and Christie, apparently as intelligent and supposedly more sympathetic, not see anything from his point of view?

"When did you do this?"

He didn't want to tell her, didn't want the story to get out. He busied himself exploring the bandage with his right hand; it was wet and sticky, maybe even a bit warm.

"Come to the locker room. I'll need the med kit for this." He followed her down the corridor, trailed his right hand along the wall and held his left up so the blood ran down his arm instead of dripping onto the floor.

"You're being quiet. Christie mad at you again?" Karen watched his face as she pulled away the bandage. Inside the cuts were red and puffy, running laterally across three fingers, on and below the knuckle. "Shit, I think there might still be something in there?"

"No, no, I cleaned it out very well. I'm sure there isn't."

"I want to look anyway. Okay?"

"Okay, Doctor Bettancourt."

She took a magnifier and searched, pulled the skin aside and prodded with a sterile tongue depressor. "You're right, how'd you clean it?"

"Brush, and then I … felt around in there."

"Brush? Like toothbrush?" She couldn't believe it, how much would that have hurt?

"Yes, and don't worry, I threw it away after."

"That had to hurt."

Jim had to agree, it certainly wasn't nice but he wanted to be sure there was nothing left in there to fester.

"So, is Christie away again?" Karen prodded with words as she applied antiseptic and new bandaging. He didn't wince at the pain, but his face showed something; she struggled to interpret it.

"Something like that." Jim pulled his hand away. "Thanks, Karen. I'm lucky to have you as a partner."

Whoa, was this _her _Jim Dunbar, or had aliens abducted and replaced him? "Yeah, you okay? Cause, you can talk to me if you need to, you know?"

"I'll work it out." Jim gave her a smile.

She stretched and yawned. "You need a lift home?"

"No, I'm going to do a little thinking first." Jim would stay and see if there was another angle he could work.

"Okay, don't fall asleep here. I'll be mad if I find you snoring behind the desk when I come in," she joked.

As soon as he was sure he was alone, Jim got on the internet and found a local hotel. Arriving a few hours later, he had to fight to get Hank in there with him. There may be a law that said Guide Dogs could go anywhere their handlers went, but this particular hotel tried to make it unpleasant enough that Jim would go somewhere else. Finally after midnight, in a strange bed, the smell of smoke in his nose, despite his demand for a smoke free room, he slept.

And dreamed, and one dream he remembered.

Like in most of his dreams, he could see. He was in the courtroom; the Palmerston case. It probably didn't look like the real court room but was assembled from bits of all the court rooms he'd seen in his career. The judge looked like Judge Judy from daytime television.

He was walking down the centre isle in the gallery. Karen walked behind him. He smiled, the part of him that knew he was dreaming noticed she should be in front, and he felt excited as he turned around to take a look at her, to finally see for himself what his partner looked like. As he turned, he stumbled on something on the floor, looking down; it was an outstretched foot, huge, size fifteen at least and attached to a huge bare leg. Dimmey stood, shouting, his hands in manacles. Jim looked up as the giant brought them down toward his head. He tried to move away, but as in so many dreams, he was frozen to the spot, watching as his fate descended. He knew those hands, if they reached him, they would hurt him. Being hurt he equated with being blinded. He looked around, frantic and then his sight flickered like a light whose connection was loose. As his vision went cloudy, and darkened, his breath stopped in his chest; like poured concrete as it hardens. In his dream he knew if Dimmey reached him, his sight would be stolen for ever, but he could no longer see clearly enough to avoid him. With a supreme effort, he pulled back falling...

And woke up, sitting bolt upright, his breath coming in short bursts. Hank loped up, whined, and put his head on Jim's leg and licked his hand.

Jim's breathing slowed. He patted his dog. "I'm okay. I'm okay, Hank."

Jim checked his watch; three-thirty. He lay back, but sleep was gone.

By the morning, the dream had spawned an idea. Jim showered and paid the manager, not even bothering to report the crappy service or the crappy room. He hurried back to the apartment, heard Christie singing in the shower. He changed his clothes and left before she knew he was there.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Chris Leith, chewed at his pencil, he had started out so confident; there was a confession, the defendant was caught in possession of one of the missing children _and _he had beaten up the arresting officer. Cut and dried. Only now, Chris felt he was the one who had been cut in to little pieces and hung up to dry like fish on a rack, by Ms. Wasabi, the defense attorney, who looked more like a DA than the pudgy, mouse haired prosecutor ever would. This, his first case, had gone to the dogs and he was wondering if he should be perusing the employment pages right now.

Reluctantly he stood and addressed the jury; "Ladies and Gentlemen, the evidence remains that Dimmey Palmerston was the one who directed the police in their search for the missing children. He alone knew where they were because he alone had taken them from their homes and their playgrounds. He placed Scottie Weese in the locker and locked it, thereby causing his death by suffocation." He went on, making impassioned pleas to their reason.

But the jury was biased now; they were on the side of the big kid who sat, during the trial that determined the rest of his life, and drew pictures with crayons and smiled winsomely but was too shy to answer any questions. The defense had been very successful in making Jim and Karen out to be heartless cops; shortsightedly looking for a scapegoat, so they could close their case. Chris took his seat after making his play; this was less like the game of chess he had imagined and more like being taught a lesson by an opponent who outmatched you one hundred to one.

The defense attorney approached the witness stand. She was a sharp looking Asian woman, her hair tied in a severe black bun at the back of her neck, her clothes were dark and expensive. She looked more like a shark circling than a sheepdog guarding her client. "Detective Bettancourt, please describe what you saw of the arrest made by Detective Dunbar."

"Well, it wasn't intended to be an arrest; during a door knock, the suspect showed recognition of the missing children when he looked at the photographs. He opened the door; we followed him into the building where he attacked us," Karen explained.

"So, you had no reason to believe this man was the abductor?" Ms. Wasabi asked.

"Not at that point, no," Karen had to agree.

"And was it you or Detective Dunbar who first came up with the idea that Dimmey Palmerston could be charged with the abductions?"

"Came up with the idea? No, he attacked and abducted us, then we found Sophie in the same building – there was no coming up with an idea." Karen's anger showed. She hated the way these lawyers presented their own views in the form of questions, twisted the jury's understanding, and seeded it with further doubt.

"So, _together_, you formed the conclusion that, because Sophie Leberowski was found in the same building as the defendant, he must have abducted her?"

"She also identified him," Karen pointed out.

The counselor smiled at Karen and turned, with a sincere confusion on her face, back to the jury. "Oh, I was led to believe her parents refused to have her view a line up and select the man who had taken her?"

Karen fumed, she watched Jim who looked as calm as ever. It was true, the Leberowski's had declined the line up, but the Lieutenant had backed them up saying the upset she might feel was unnecessary; with Dimmey's confession the prosecution should have it in the bag.

"It was considered unnecessary," Karen said, trying for the same crisp clipped style Jim used so well in the courtroom.

The defense turned to the jury, arms open in supplication. "So the detectives and their lieutenant decided that standard law enforcement procedures, such as a line up, were unnecessary because it might upset a little girl? And what other standard procedures did you neglect Detective Bettancourt? By the way, how long have you _been_ a detective? Do you rely on _Detective Dunbar_ to _guide you_ in investigating serious crimes and identifying the offenders? Are you what is called a 'rookie'?" The defense counsel's voice rose slowly, punctuating words with depreciating gestures designed to show the jury that Karen was incompetent and relied on Jim to identify the perp. The questions fired in rapid succession, not allowing time for Karen to utter a word. And the prosecutor's melodrama was very effective, taking the jury with it, every accusation mirrored in the eyes of the six men and six women who sat in judgment against Jim and Karen, rather than of Dimmey Palmerston.

"No! I am not a _rookie_!" Karen felt swamped, how was she supposed to answer three questions in one? And should she answer these?

"Chris, what are you doing? Stop this!" Jim whispered fiercely, digging his elbow into the prosecutor who sat, fuming but silent beside him.

Chris stood, "Objection, Your Honor, the detectives are not on trial."

"Sustained. Defense counsel will address the evidence not malign the character or competence of the police."

"But Your Honor, it is these very incompetent police who currently threaten the liberty of this innocent child, while the real perpetrator of this crime goes unsought, unpunished and perhaps abducting more children. Unless we can show this, the police will close the file and the real criminals will get away." The defense counsel was as sly as a snake, turning even the judge's words against Jim and Karen and now equating a guilty verdict with another criminal loose on the streets to abduct more children.

"Counsel, approach the bench," though the judge's voice was quiet, her eyes glittered like the sharp edges of cut glass.

Both the defense and prosecutor stood before her. After giving the prosecution a warning look she turned to the defense counsel. "Ms. Wasabi, I am aware of your strategy and I warn you now, that if you further attempt to turn the jury from their duty of examining the evidence rather than the gatherers of that evidence, I will find reason to reprimand you in a manner that you will find most unpleasant." The defense nodded and looked away, her dark hair swung loose of its tight fixture atop her head and hid her expression from the judge. The sparkle in her eye did not diminish, she had the jury anyhow, this would be a piece of cake, all she needed was that blind detective on the stand, a nice sympathetic tone, a gentle approach and the jury would see him as a groping fool, trying to carry out a function well beyond his capabilities.

The judge turned back to the prosecutor, "And you Mr. Leith, you had better step up to the plate, right now; your case looks pathetic."

…

When the prosecution again held the stage, the jury members got to view enlarged photos of Jim's injuries and were swayed somewhat, but not enough to make them doubt the big shy kid they saw playing with crayons and match box cars at the defense desk.

Wasabi smiled, treasuring the law that said all evidence had to be shared. It had taken a lot of effort but she had managed to dig up photos of very similar injuries on another man, newly blinded and thus liable to walk into half opened doors, injure his wrist in cane travel, and even break a few ribs in a tumble down some stairs. Every injury came with a confession of self-infliction.

She would put the photos up, describe them in detail to the detective and ask if he could have in fact received his injuries in very similar circumstances. If he admitted they could have been self-inflicted, the jury would assume they did. Even an embarrassed smile from him would work in her favor; his denial would appear nothing more than defensiveness and pride.

If needed, she had the tape recording where the Lieutenant had questioned the detective on the bruises on his hands and wrists. She almost hoped he would deny it, the exact words on tape were damning; _"Jim, how did your hands get so bruised?" A long pause… "I had no cane and no guide, Sir. I stumbled a bit."_ Wasabi almost shivered with anticipation almost tasting the bitter joy on her tongue.

As expected, the defense asked to recall Detective Dunbar and was granted permission after recess; the judge looked directly at Chris Leith and shook her head.

…

During the recess Jim turned to Chris. "Where is Dimmey seated?"

"At the defense table."

"This side?"

Chris nodded.

"Yes," Karen supplied, gesturing angrily to Chris that he should speak to Jim, not just nod.

"So, he's sitting on the end?" Jim clarified.

"Yes." Chris exaggerated his answer and glared at Karen.

"I have an idea." Jim laid out his plan.

"Oh, no, Jimmy that's too dangerous." Karen was adamant.

"You think he'll _attack_ you?" Chris asked doubtfully; glancing at the big man sitting hunched over, making broom-broom sounds, a few feet away. His parents were bribing him with promises of chocolate milk and cookies to get him to leave with them. It worked and Karen, Jim, and Chris were alone in the court room.

"Yes, absolutely he would, but it's too dangerous," Karen stated, annoyed that their own prosecutor hadn't accepted what they had told them of the man's violent nature.

"You see any other way to get this guy off the street, Karen?" Jim reasoned.

She shook her head. "No, but I don't like it."

"Come on take me to the doors, I need to know the layout." Jim stood up, committed. "Hank, stay."

Karen sighed, she gave him her arm, and spoke softly as they walked, "Jimmy, last time I had to stand by and watch…" she sounded distressed.

"He's in cuffs, there are guards and you _know_ what to expect," Jim reassured her, ignoring the tension in his own body. "And this time your hands are free, you have a gun, and there's no walls between us." he whispered, leaning over her as they walked to the back of the room.

Despite his calming words, Jim was surprised to find fear trying to worm its way in, using the images from his dream the night before as passport. He refused entry to the fear but the images stuck in his head, making it a little difficult to map the gallery, the layout of the tables, and the witness stand.

"Chris, you staying here over recess?"

"Yes. I gotta find some way to turn this around." Clearly he had no faith in Jim's plan. That was fine; Jim didn't require any from him.

"Look after my dog, we're going for coffee."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen.

Both Ms. Wasabi and Chris Leith wore frowns, Karen had returned but Jim was still missing from the prosecutor's table.

Karen watched the jury enter, twelve men and women, whose demographics she had read to Jim as soon as the jury was set. He had been unhappy with the choice, openly criticized the DA for allowing several inclusions; the woman with the blind husband, no, wrong choice, he was unemployed, she'd assume every blind person was incapable of doing a job effectively, the gay couple, no, wrong choice, they were likely to find Dimmey's physique attractive, project their images on to him and want him to go free, the ex-cop, definitely no. The rookie DA had rolled his eyes and told Jim not to worry, and Karen half hoped he would pat the bristling detective's hand placatingly, as he looked like he wanted to, just to watch the fear in his eyes as Jim grabbed him and gave him a lesson in Dunbar 101.

As if at a crime scene, Jim had fired multiple questions at her; rarely about the counsel, never about the judge, always about the jury. And, as with his questions in the field, after some time she began to see the picture he looked for with his probes. This jury started out as individual members, but when the tape had been played, where Jim threatened Dimmey in order to get the information from him, they had coalesced. Seeing this, she had been worried and shared her conclusions with Jim. "_It's better this way, we only have to convince one mind now not several. It's way better than having to convince a jury that is split down the middle_," he had said.

_The jury, the jury, it's always about the jury, _she told herself. _The others are a distraction. _ He had ten years on her of watching his cases dismissed, his evidence, so carefully gathered, burnt to a cinder under the torch of a cross examination. She'd checked his statistics, in the squad, sitting next to him, when he thought she was searching DMV or some such. When he first started as a detective, he had his wins, he had his losses. The stats got better as he gained experience, but in the three years before his medical leave, not a single case had been lost when Detective Dunbar had led the case, gathered the evidence for the DA, or taken part in the trial. _Watch their emotions, it's our barometer._ And in this case, he had asked her again and again about the members of the jury. _Did they move in their seats as if uncomfortable? Did they watch the defendant or the counsel, who did they turn to within their group? Who was bored, who was enjoying the drama?_

When the defense called him, Jim's answer came from the open door at the back of the room. He stepped into the hush. "I'm here, on my way," he said apologetically.

Taking out his cane, Jim shook it, and the whole room listened as it clack-clack-clacked into place. He tapped it on the floor and then double tapped down the isle. The judgment of dozens of eyes was heavy, but he hitched his shoulders and shored up his resolve. There wasn't another way.

Ms. Wasabi held her face in a sympathetic manner, covering up the victorious taste in her mouth; she loved it when the DA's witnesses set themselves up for the kill all on their own.

Karen had suggested he walk the distance more slowly than his usual pace in order to make the point, he had grimaced and asked if she thought that was necessary. In the end, he made the point even better than he intended, when about half way to the inner court, his cane snagged on one of the seats, and he had to stop momentarily. He had veered; he gritted his teeth, corrected his direction by touching the back of the bench he faced, squared off and continued double tapping.

The defense counsel's mask slipped for a moment and she grinned; he was portraying the blind man better than she could have choreographed herself. This cross examination was going to be a very enjoyable waltz to a "not guilty" verdict; she, who was in her element when she led, would lead, he, who was accustomed to following, would follow, and Dimmey would dance out of the court a free man. Not that the imbecile would ever appreciate how wonderful his attorney had been, but that was okay, she glanced at the parents, they'd paid enough.

Finally, Jim's cane hit the small gate that led to the inner court.

Opening it, he listened for Dimmey's heavy breathing and purposely misaligned himself so that instead of heading straight for the bench as he had done previously, he angled toward the defense table. He felt the eyes that followed his travail; dripping pity that the poor man with the white cane couldn't even head straight for the witness stand.

Jim continued on as if he thought he was heading directly for the witness stand, so he was moving fast when he collided with Dimmey, who sat slouched on his too-small-chair. Jim's shin hit the wooden seat with a crack loud enough for everyone to hear. "Oh, please excuse me," he said out loud and then bent over, rubbing his leg. He whispered so only Dimmey could hear, "I found your cat, Dimmey. I found it and how you killed it and now it's dead."

"No, No!" Dimmey's voice rose above the titter of the crowd who had tried to hold back their chuckle at the slapstick comedy of a blind man walking into a chair.

Jimmy pushed harder, this was his last shot. "You killed it yourself and you didn't even know it was dead, Dimmey. Dumbar huh? Who's the dummy now, Dummey?"

"No!" The crowd went silent as the accused stood, reaching his full height of six foot eight inches and raised his cuffed hands. Jim felt the weight of the man looming over him and fought a sense of déjà vu. This wasn't his dream, he reminded himself forcibly; he couldn't see the big man in front of him, the image was in his imagination only, and even if it matched reality, Jim couldn't pull away, not before the court, the jury, and the judge saw Dimmey's very adult rage and the very real possibility of the damage he could inflict. Jim straightened, as if unaware of the danger, intending to move onto the witness stand. He turned his back to Dimmey Palmerston.

Ms. Wasabi took a step forward, no, the imbecile could ruin all her work so far. Hands grabbed her; his parent's in fear for her life. She stopped, she stepped back and she watched.

Karen held her jaw shut by sheer effort as the drama unfolded in front of her and slid her weapon quietly in her hands. Dimmey narrowed his eyes like a predator and swept his hands down and through, fists together; forearms forming a massive club which he crashed into Jim's unprotected torso. The court saw the blow come from the side and up, sweeping a full grown man off his feet as easily as a three year old sweeps up a rag doll for play.

Jim's body folded in half at the point that Dimmey made contact. He turned into the blow. The force sent him backward, hands trailing in the air, cane slipping free and flipping over almost languidly. Karen sucked in a painful breath as her partner landed heavily on the courtroom floor some yards away from the defense table where he had bumped Dimmey's chair.

The echo of breath being driven from lungs hung in the silence of the court until Dimmey broke the suspended moment, oblivious to anything but the need to attack. Guards, stationed at the back of the room, expecting no action today, came to life and ran forward.

Jim lay still. The floorboards under his head vibrated with every step they took; he listened especially for Karen's; smaller, lighter, far more reliable, and waiting for the right moment. As worried as she had been, he knew, that once committed, she would carry out her side to the letter, stepping in before he was seriously hurt, but not until Dimmey had destroyed his chance of acquittal.

Before the guards made even half the distance, Dimmey had pursued Jim across the floor, like a puppy tossing his toy and then chasing it.

The court watched, unbelieving, as Jim collected a booted kick and curled reflexively and silently around his stomach. Well defined muscles burst through their sleeve as Dimmey bent over the man on the ground. The collective breath was held; what would he do now? Like enthralled TV watchers, the jury and the gallery speculated from their seats. The CNN cameraman wondered if he was about to win a Pulitzer. The newspaper writer wondered if the big man was worried about what he had done or was he about to inflict more damage? An older woman, with a blind husband at home, wondered if the detective was dead. For now it looked as if Dimmey were inspecting Detective Dunbar with the same question in mind.

As if aware of the scrutiny, Dimmey looked around, saw the guards coming toward him. Understanding bloomed in his face; they were going to take Jim away from him. "No!" he bellowed again and reached out his massive hands to Jim's unguarded form.

Sensing a change in Dimmey's position, Jim abandoned his defense of his stomach and put his hands up to protect his head; he _could_ take another kick like the last one, but _not _to his head.

Dimmey had no intention of kicking Jim again. He felt attacked and the only weapon he had was the body in front of him. He gathered both booted ankles with one massive hand, with the other, he took hold of Jim's shoulder. Jim weighed at least 175 pounds but Dimmey lifted him like a barbell, up and over his head, as if he weighed no more than fifty pounds. Like a weightlifter, Dimmey held him there, almost nine feet in the air; steady, while he looked around at the guards who had stopped a few feet away. From this position, Dimmey could launch Jim's body like a missile into the guards, up to the judge, even into the jury, with enough force to injure both missile and targets. Maybe that would give him time to run away. He looked for open doors.

Ms. Wasabi groaned inside, the look in her client's eye was unmistakably adult, and those bulging arms could not be confused with the arms of a child by anyone. He held the man at close to nine feet up in the air; no adult in this room could even reach up and touch Detective Dunbar right now, even if they didn't have to fight the primal fear of facing a very large opponent. By showing the jury that this man was something to be feared, he had won the case for the DA.

From her position, the defense counsel was the only one who could see Jim's face; curled defensively, his arms over his head, knees drawn up, his eyes open, unseeing; but not a modicum of fear or doubt that he would get out of this in one piece. To her, despite his precarious position, he looked in control of the situation, and she was certain he had manipulated the whole scenario. A seedling of respect tried to grow in the garden of her fertile mind, she ground it under a boot heel; he had just ended her perfect run of successful cases.

If Jim could have seen her, he would have enjoyed the tribute on her face; she knew when she was outmaneuvered.

Dimmey continued his slow turn, holding Jim's weight with no effort, searching for an exit.

In the air, held like a rag doll again, the fragility of his position surrounded Jim like crackling cellophane, and his breath came only in painful gasps. Dark shards of fear tried to poke their way past his defenses and convince him that in the next moment, his back was going to be broken across Dimmey's knee like a non-favored toy in the hands of a petulant child. The silence from the court was complete and Jim was alone with the angry breathing of the attacking giant somewhere below him. But he held to his commitment, he gave no quarter to the possibilities. His job was to protect and to serve and that meant ensuring Dimmey Palmerston was not free to abduct any more children. The plan was simple; Jim would court the attack, take what Dimmey served, and keep asking for more until Karen deemed the jury won over. With Karen at his back, even the images from his dream could not shake him.

Karen watched the members of the jury, looking for the signs Jim had briefed her on, the change in breath, the slumped shoulders, fear in their eyes. There! A tear escaped a woman's eye and ran fugitive down her cheek; a man gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes while he watched Dimmey turn; two jurors holding each other's hands shuddered together. Several began shaking their heads. As one, the twelve men and women overturned their earlier judgment and reassigned white hat and black.

In the balancing act of leading and guiding, supporting and following, that she and Dunbar had practiced since they were partnered, it was her turn now. She could act on her instincts. She brought her full attention back to her partner's attacker.

No longer in touch with the floorboards, Jim didn't hear Karen's footfall as she took position.

"Freeze!" her voice made its way through to Jim. "Put him down gently, Dimmey."

Dimmey stayed still. The child in him argued - if he couldn't see her, maybe she couldn't see him. He kept his back to her.

"Dimmey, I'm pointing my gun at you, if I shoot you that will hurt a lot."

Even the child understood that one. Dimmey turned slowly, his arms extended to heaven, in a weird parody of 'hands up'. Jim, forgotten, suspended in the air, waited.

Dimmey looked down at the nice lady with pretty hair; she'd only ever been nice to him. Why was she so angry now? "He said my kitty is dead," he explained pitifully. Tears welled in his eyes, innocent once more.

Karen shifted her gaze between Jim and Dimmey. Dimmey needed her eye contact and Jim couldn't benefit from it.

She forced the anger out of her voice, "Well, maybe that's true, but you can't hurt people just because you're angry. Now put him down slowly."

Dimmey's lips quivered, he looked from Karen to her gun. He knew what guns did; he'd found one once, there was lots of blood and screaming, that mean hurt, and his parents had kept him inside for ages.

"Dimmey, I said put him down." Karen pulled the safety off, arming the gun with a loud snap.

A sullen expression washed over Dimmey's face; it was clear to all that he understood the significance of that sound.

Without taking his eyes from Karen's, Dimmey slowly opened his hands, the court gasped, watching as Jim slid from the open hands toward the floor, but the guards stepped up and broke his fall; only a hand and a knee slammed into the floor with any force. Dimmey turned at the sound, a smile played at the side of his mouth; clearly he was glad Jim had not made a soft landing.

"Dimmey," Karen almost whispered but it brought the man's head back around with a snap. "Keep your hands in the air."

The guards were still in rescue mode and pulled Jim up onto his feet by the arms and dragged him away from the danger.

In her peripheral vision, Karen saw Jim stumble, and she desperately wanted to see if this was from injury, but she couldn't afford to leave his attacker uncovered. She kept her gun on Dimmey. "Chris – help him!" Her angry words burnt a path through the pervading stupor to the lawyer and he came out from behind the table, scuttling in a wide arc around Dimmey. He reached out and grabbed Jim's arm, trying to drag him further away from the giant, more from his own fear of the accused than in answer to Jim's needs.

"Stand still," Jim said harshly, correcting Chris' misconception about how to help. Soon he had Chris' elbow in his hand and the man rooted to the spot, face flushed with embarrassment.

Now that the guards were on their task, Karen divided her attention between the big man and her partner. Tentatively, the uniformed men pushed Dimmey's legs apart to fit the manacle. As the silver restraints clicked into place his head dropped forward, tears falling from under his brown fringe and racking sobs shook his massive shoulders. The guards took one arm each and pulled them down and they hung from his shoulders in front of him, dragging his shoulders down. He bent over and sobbed. "I want my kitty..." he seemed to be saying in between the sobs. When he looked up and met Karen's eye, it was again the gaze of a lost and sad child, weeping over a lost kitten while his freedom slipped from his grasp. Her mouth set in a hard line.

Mirroring Dimmey's stance, Jim's feet, shoulder width apart, were set for balance, his head was also dropped forward, his body bent slightly at the waist, like an athlete regaining his breath after a marathon or a sprint. Karen noticed his right hand held Chris's arm firmly while he held his left was tucked in close to his body. When Jim raised his blonde head toward her voice, Karen saw, not a reflection of Dimmey's unhappiness, but the green tinge of nausea and Jim's efforts to regain control of the breath, that had been knocked out of him earlier, and hadn't yet found the safety it needed to settle into place.

"Take the accused to a cell," the judge spoke in a quiet voice.

Released from the hold of the drama they had witnessed, media personnel ran from the courtroom, video cameras clutched like inheritances to their chest, eager to make the exclusive first on the news. The members of the jury, the members of the gallery all turned to their neighbors to recount what they had just seen, recalibrating their judgment on Dimmey; the look in his eye, the extreme speed and violence of his actions. Clearly this man was not safe to have on the streets, if he would do that to a helpless blind man, what would he do to their children, to themselves if they should come across him in a park or a mall?

Dimmey Palmerston was removed from the courtroom. His parents, previously looking kindly and forgiving, even at Karen and Jim, now made a more complex picture of anger and hurt, fear and sadness, as the mother sobbed in the father's arms and he glanced around, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Karen didn't re-holster her gun until the accused was out of the room.

Jim, having regained his breath, swayed a little, but stood still, as his listened to Dimmey's receding steps.

The judge spoke, "Detective Dunbar, do you need an ambulance?"

Jim's head came up and he attempted a smile. "No, Your Honor. I'm okay."

The judge's tone was acerbic, but the court saw her smile back. "I believe you intended that little demonstration?"

Jim didn't answer the question directly; he turned to face her voice, dropping Chris' arm and taking a step toward the judge, "I didn't see him, Your Honor. I just bumped into him."

"I see. Unintentional?" The judge's smile faded, "The jury will ignore the latest scene. You may take your seat."

The defense sent a scowl to the blind detective and began to pack her desk. Chris beamed; Jim had made his point, the jury had seen how swift, how _wild_, Dimmey's rage was, and so would the thousands who watched the news later that night.

"Counsel, approach the bench."

While the judge spoke her harsh words to counsel, Karen led Jim back to his chair. He took only shallow breaths, and she noticed he favored his wrist.

Despite Jim's protests, Karen took him to the emergency ward, not the ME's, and he spent the night in a hospital bed. Once settled in, he found he didn't mind it that much; they had good drugs for his aches and pains, he wasn't sure if he was welcome at home; Christie didn't answer his calls or return his messages, this room didn't smell of smoke like the hotel room had. And the nurses made a fuss over Hank, with no protests about him staying with Jim.

**Epilogue to follow**


	16. Chapter 16

_Epilogue_

He opened the back door to let the panting dog out and sent a smile to the front seat, "Thanks for the ride, Karen."

Hank jumped from the back of the car and took up position next to Jim, who hesitated to pick up the harness. His left wrist was in a sling and the doctor had explained that any tug could turn the fracture into a break. Hank was a strong dog and responded to a strong hand; Jim just needed to get to the apartment; there was no need to push things. He settled the bunch of flowers into the crook of the sling, took Hank's lead in his right hand, and squared off with the car.

Still he hesitated, as tired as he was, he dreaded going home and spending an evening arguing with Christie. Karen distracted him from his thoughts.

"Hey, Jim," Karen's door slammed and she got out of the car. She was quiet as she came around and leaned against the car next to him. Jim wondered what it was that she was having trouble spitting out. He waited for her to speak, suppressing a groan; she wasn't going to ask about Christie again was she?

"This case…with Dimmey?" She watched him nod, his face clearing from the earlier cloud she had seen there. "I know it pushed some things in your face that you didn't like; having to play it up in the courtroom and all."

He stilled; this was not an area he felt comfortable talking about either.

"But I want you to know, with Dimmey, when he attacked us and all, I don't think anyone could have had my back better."

He nodded; his eyes serious, his mouth pulled down at the edges as he controlled his urge to deny her words. "Thanks, Karen."

She saw his resistance, pushed on, determined to make the point, "Look, what I mean is… I feel safe with you."

He shook his head dismissively.

She tightened her jaw; put her hand on his right arm, avoiding the injured one, hoping he could feel her sincerity through her touch. "I'm serious. There is _no one_ I would trust more than you to have my back."

He blinked, nodded; accepting that she believed what she was saying. It didn't mean he believed it though; there was still the doubt in his mind. Maybe he could have handled it better if he could see; she shouldn't have had the bruises, the black eye. Somehow he felt that if he had been able to see, she wouldn't have been hurt.

"I feel the same about you, Karen."

"And with this whole case… you went the extra mile – or ten." She tried, unsuccessfully, to lighten her tone. Standing so close to him, she could see unnamed sorrows in his eyes. Her emotions welled and she was glad he couldn't see her tears. "Well, I guess I'm proud to be your partner."

There, she'd said it. She blushed and he smiled. "I better shut up now; before I get soppy."

"Too late," he teased and she watched as the creases beside his eyes deepened with his smile.

She didn't answer, biting her lip to keep the emotions back. She kept the contact on his arm, for her sake more than his.

"It took both of us." Jim was very aware that he couldn't have done half of it alone, or even with another partner. Karen anticipated and accommodated him in a way that made his work as close to seamless as it could get. He reached up awkwardly and patted the hand she had left on his arm, "Don't underestimate your contribution, Karen, you're a very good detective."

"Thanks," she managed to whisper, her eyes averted.

Feeling the strain on his ribs, Jim struggled to keep the discomfort from his face as he bent to shorten Hank's lead. "I gotta go, Karen."

"See you tomorrow." Her hand slid off his arm and she stepped away.

Squared off with the car, Jim pulled Hank in close with the lead.

Hank knew the drill and he pressed up against Jim's leg; he accommodated his boss's quirks too.

"Hank, forward."

Christie moved from the window, sighing. Jimmy had seemed reluctant to leave Karen, hesitating several times as he was about to come up to the apartment. Or was it Karen keeping him there, with her hand on his shoulder? Jim's partner seemed emotional, even from this distance Christie could see that. Was this work, a case gone wrong, or something more? But Jimmy had only put his hand on Karen's. Maybe Karen was having troubles, maybe it was nothing. Despite the past, Christie was pretty sure than being unable to see the women around him would put a dent in chasing skirt, and surely his partner was off limits; Jimmy loved his job too much to do that.

Christie, counseled herself to wait, to see if this developed any further, before jumping to conclusions. Her therapist, Barbara, would tell her to wait, watch, and keep in touch with the possibility that all was well, not to let her imagination drag her into lies. She tightened control, she would wait and see, not say anything yet. Christie drained her wineglass again and set it on the sill.

She heard Jim's key in the door and tiptoed quickly through to the bathroom.

Hank trotted through the doorway, behind him, Jim put the keys in the bowl, the harness on the chest, and retrieved the flowers from their niche in his arm. "Christie?"

Her perfume hung in the air as if she had just walked past; Christie _was_ in the apartment. At least he wouldn't have to put this off any longer, they could clear the air now and sleep peacefully tonight.

He walked through the apartment, calling for her. Eventually, he found her in the bathroom; she was at the sink, the water running, perhaps she hadn't heard him calling. He stood in the doorway, holding out the expensive bouquet. "Christie, I brought these for you."

She tried to brush past him, not speaking. He planted his feet and refused her any further passage, other than into his arms. "No, Christie, we have to talk."

"I don't _want_ to talk to you." She struggled against him, but he dropped the flowers into the sink and pulled her to his chest; immobilizing her easily. His right arm snaked around her back, pinning her like a butterfly on a board. His left hand stroked her hair gently behind her. Something stirred deep inside her; she looked up at him, his strength battering at her resolve to stay unemotional, to keep her distance. But he didn't, couldn't, meet her defiant gaze and the flutter in her belly was quelled, the fire sputtering before it could build.

She remembered the times their wills had met like this, in opposition, his strength of body, her strength of mind clashing and igniting their desires. But that wasn't going to happen now; he couldn't see the change from anger to desire that was signaled in her eyes, she couldn't accept the soft gaze in place of the icy glare that would have brought chills and excitement.

It used to be that she'd continue to throw fighting words while inviting him with her eyes, her smile, her body. And he would know she didn't mean them, ignore them, and walk straight into her fire. But he couldn't do that dance anymore; instead he listened to her words, her scorn, her silence. And she couldn't change couldn't open up that which he used to rip like tissue paper, couldn't speak soft words of love and follow it with passion like perhaps he needed now.

"Is that why you haven't answered my calls?" he asked in a tight voice. "My calls from the hospital?"

"I knew you were okay. After all, if you weren't you couldn't leave so many messages, could you?" she demanded, hoping to provoke him further. Disappointed again, she watched the indecision in his face, he relaxed his grip a little, she stopped struggling, he released her and she sighed, stepped back from him.

"You called from a hospital?" she asked, turning to look at the flowers melting in the heat of the steamy bathroom, nice, soft pinks, white, some green fern leaves, apology flowers.

"Yes, wondering why my wife wouldn't take my call." He was still hurt, hoping for a better explanation than indifference.

She looked at him again, took in the arm in a sling, the deep creases under his eyes. She felt anger rising again, anger that he constantly put himself in danger, uncaring that it caused her to worry. Her words were icicles, sharp and cold, accusing, "I thought you were in court this week?"

"I was." He didn't explain further.

"So, what'd you do? Trip over?" She sounded petty and nasty. She could hear it herself and it made her angry at him, he could always turn a situation around and make her look like the bad guy. She poked her finger into his wrist, hard, and, as he gasped and moved to protect it, she slipped past him and out the door. He wasn't as invulnerable as he thought.

"Christie, that hurt." His voice held an almost menacing tone, mixed with disbelief.

"What?" she asked, her eyes feasting on his bewilderment. She shook her head, as she watched him accept her innocence. These days he always underestimated her; before the shooting, she would never have gotten away with something like that. She turned on her heel.

He followed her into the bedroom. "Christie, we're adults, let's sit down and talk this through."

"I don't have time."

"Why?"

"I've got a plane to catch."

"A plane?" Jim followed her toward the bed until something bumped his knee - he ran his hand over it - her suitcase.

"There's a case there somewhere, can you lift it to the bed for me?" she spoke from the closet.

He hefted the case, took careful steps around other objects on the floor and settled it on the bed. "A plane?" he repeated.

"Yes, Jim, a plane, you know one of those things people get into when they're going on holiday."

His hands failed to find an empty spot amongst the clothes she had laid out on the bed, so he retreated to the window, leaned back, listened to the sounds of her packing. "You're going on a holiday?"

"No, Jim, Clay's sending me to LA for two weeks to make sure Naomi's shoot goes well," she huffed as if this should be completely clear to him.

"Did you tell me about the trip before?" He scanned his memory but came up empty.

"No, I didn't think you'd be interested."

Jim was silent. This was obviously a big deal for her. How had he missed it? "Christie, I am sorry if I haven't been supportive this last couple of weeks. It's just this case, it really took everything-"

Christie jumped in, "Name one that hasn't, Jimmy." The sounds of packing ended, her finger poked into his chest and he flinched. His face heated. "Since you got shot, name one case that hasn't taken everything?" Then she was gone, clinking in the bathroom, packing her beauty case.

He had no answer, but was it _all _his fault? "Is there anything I can do... to make up for it?"

"You can carry my case to the door," she called over her shoulder.

He lifted the case from her side of the bed; it was heavy with clothes, many weeks worth of clothes. It was hot in LA at the moment. He chewed at his lip, running his fingers over her name embossed next to the lock, _Mrs. C. J. Dunbar_. He followed her footfall from the bathroom and carried the case to the apartment door, then out to the elevator where she waited.

As the doors closed in front of them, he set the bag on the floor and ran his hand down her arm, "This case is pretty heavy, Christie." Jim skirted the subject for a moment, before plunging in; "You are planning on coming back aren't you?"

The elevator opened, "My taxi's here. Can you carry that out?"

Jim picked up the case, slipped his left hand from the sling, and reached for her arm. She had moved forward, out of the elevator already, and he followed her slowly, "Christie, wait up. I need…"

"Sorry, I forgot." She let him catch up and take her arm.

They walked in silence, through the foyer, out the doors, and to the taxi at the curb. Thunder growled quietly, far away, and the air tasted faintly of the sea. The driver got out, took Christie's case from Jim, and went to the back of the car.

Freed from its duty, Jim's right hand slid down the roofline and found the handle to the back door. Christie stepped forward expecting him to open it for her and shepherd her in, but instead he sealed it and pulled her close to his body, giving her a goodbye kiss atop her head. She stiffened.

Nevertheless, he relinquished the door and her arm, encircled her waist and brought her in close to him in a familiar embrace. Cool waves of her hair escaped their complicated arrangement atop her head, poured down her back and pooled in his hands. Bent toward her, his head bumped hers lightly; she gritted her teeth. Soon his lips followed the smooth curve of her ear, "You didn't answer my question. When are you planning on coming home?" His hot breath on her neck raised goose bumps on her flesh.

Trapped again, feeling the familiar tightening in her chest, the heat in her loins, she brought her hands up, palms to his chest, and felt his heart beating steadily. She looked up to his face, the moonlight shone in his hair, his eyes looked like pools of midnight and she cooled, the melting reversed and her will crystallized. As his kiss searched for hers, she turned her head away, moved so her lips sat over his heart and released shiny, sharp, cold words from her mouth. "Do you think I should?"

The question froze the thoughts in his head, and he could make no move to stop her when she broke the circle of his arms and left them empty. A moment later a car door slammed and the taxi drove off.

…

A car sped past, buffeting Jim at the curbside and he jerked in surprise, he needed to go inside.

Slowly, he made his way back to the building, to the apartment, and the couch.

The question hung in the air; a storm front, threatening to pelt down hailstones on the fragile landscape of their marriage. Outside, lightening flashed in the sky, but no thunder alerted him, no rain fell, the clouds grew heavier.

Rain tapped insistently on the window, Jim's eyes opened and he stretched, reaching the nightstand and the clock. "Six twenty-two am."

He padded through his morning routine, enjoying the quiet inside, the steady timpani beat of the rain outside the windows.

"We gotta get you a raincoat, Hank, I think Marty may actually have a point," Hank wagged his tail in agreement.

Jim smiled at the tap tap tap on his leg, as he tested his wrist and decided to call a cab. He wouldn't wear the sling in the squad but he'd limit his use of the harness. The faster he healed the faster he'd be 100 effective on the job. The cell phone beeped as he entered the elevator. It was Karen not Christie; that was okay, the silent treatment didn't seem quiet so bad when his wife was in another state.

The rain had stopped and the sun shone hot on his back as Jim tipped the cabbie for dropping him exactly in front of the precinct doors and used his cane to negotiate the steps. In the elevator, he picked up the harness gingerly but dropped it as soon as they turned the corner into the squad, and he felt a twinge deep in his wrist.

"Hey, Tom, here comes the wresting dude, you want I should get his autograph for you?" Marty quipped.

"Morning, Jim." Tom was probably glaring at Marty.

"Morning Tom, Marty."

"Morning Jim, you in for some hand wresting this morning? I know I'm not as big as the guys you're used to but…"

"No, thanks for the offer." Jim managed a grin; it'd be almost funny, if he didn't still hurt.

Marty tried again, "Hey, is Christie mad at you or something?"

Jim slowed, his grin melted off his face and a cold wave went through his stomach, he didn't bring his home life to the squad, ever. What was Marty picking up on?

"I mean, that shirt has marks all over it …"

Jim's hand involuntarily moved toward his chest, she hadn't messed with his clothes before she left, had she?

"You look fine, Jim, he's just clutching at straws." Karen arrived behind him, "You think she'd ever let him out of the apartment looking less than a fashion model, Marty?"

"So, we got any cases or we all on holiday, like Russo here?" Jim changed the subject quickly, keen to get his mind on track and leave his troubles at home.

Lieutenant Fisk strode into the room; he had a sheaf of papers in his hand, indicating there had been enough crime occurring last night to keep them all busy. "I got one detective who wants to work, any other takers?"

Marty's lips tightened, so that was how it was going to be today. Dunbar was having it too good lately; he'd have to find some extra ways to give the hero a hard time.

The End


End file.
